


A Kiss is a Terrible Thing to Waste

by uena



Series: Lovers in Arms [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, Pining, Praise Kink, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 81,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several weeks have passed since Athos let go of Milady's locket, and found an anchor in Porthos. He has come to accept his feelings, and although he cannot voice them, he no longer tries to keep them a secret from his friends. Aramis, usually the first to applaud any kind of romance, seems to be somewhat overwhelmed by this development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope_calaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/gifts).



Everything is quiet.

Hushed.

It has been raining for the past three days; it is raining now, the steady beating of water on roofs and cobbles and soaked earth intruding through the window, muting every other sound. The rain keeps people indoors, keeps the streets empty and the murderers and thieves idle.

Athos likes rain.

There is a fire in the hearth, the room is warm, and Athos feels as if he was floating. It smells _wet_ , of mud, and damp leather … smells of them, warm skin, and sweat, and scented oil.

Athos takes a deep breath. With the rain outside and them together like this nothing can harm him. Porthos is keeping him safe.

“You’re sure?” Porthos asks him, and his voice is just loud enough to be heard over the rain. He is asking the question for the third time since they undressed – for the third time since he went to his knees to unlace Athos’ undergarments.

Athos is the one on his knees now, is the one spread out on the bed, ass raised in invitation. He does not know how he could be any more obvious. His chest is threatening to split in two with how much he wants this. “Yes,” he says, and turns his head to the side where Porthos is kneeling, knowing full well that Porthos will want to see his face. “Yes, I am sure. I want it.” He licks his lips. “Please … give it to me.”

A light comes to life in Porthos’ eyes, but his mouth remains unsmiling, almost grim. It is an expression Athos has come to know intimately during the last months. “I don’t mean to push you into –“

“Porthos, please,” Athos interrupts him, “I am sure.” He feels it in his bones, that utter certainty, that longing for _more_. “I need … I need more than your hands, more than your mouth – ” He closes his eyes then, rests his cheek on the rough blanket covering the bed, his arms stretched out in front of him. “I need you inside me.”

It has been almost two months now since Porthos first gave him a taste of what it is like, since he worked him open with oil-slicked fingers, gentle and careful, and reduced Athos to whimpering arousal in a manner of minutes.

Athos was ashamed, afterward, of how he begged, how his mind went blank and his body responded to a touch that should have felt alien, but instead aroused him so much that he found his release without Porthos touching his cock.

He is no longer ashamed about that. He cannot be. For Porthos taught him how to do it – allowed Athos to touch him in that manner, trusts Athos enough to surrender himself time and time again. The smell of the oil alone is sufficient to arouse him now, to put Athos in a state of low-burning desire. It quickens his blood and makes him loose-limbed … but leaves him unashamed.

Porthos showed him that there is no need to be ashamed.

For Porthos never displays any signs of humiliation, whether he is on top of Athos or stretched out on the bed below him – is instead so much at ease with himself and his desires that Athos finds himself swept away in his tides time and time again.

When Porthos touches him now, when he puts his hand on Athos’ hip and lets it slide backward to where he has already opened him up, Athos squeezes his eyes shut until he sees stars dying behind his lids. He is desperate to be filled, loose and quivering.

“Please,” he begs again, “do it.”

“Yeah,” he hears Porthos say, and his voice is rough with emotion and arousal, “yeah, alright.” His hand strokes over Athos’ hip and his ass, palm warm and rough. “You wanna stay like this? Wanna stay on your knees?”

Athos’ lashes flutter open and for a moment his gaze is lost in the fire burning in the hearth. Then it finds Porthos’ eyes again. “I like it like this … I like it, when I … when I feel you behind me.”

This time, when Porthos smiles, it lights up his whole face. “Alright then. You ready?”

His fingertip brushes the slick rim of Athos’ entrance, and Athos moans, claws into the bedding. “Yes!”

He watches Porthos move until he is outside of his field of vision, and then he feels him at his back, feels the heat coming off Porthos’ body in waves. It is one of the innumerable qualities he loves about Porthos: that he is always warm, that his touch is always so full of life.

“Just stay like this,” he hears him murmur, “keep nice and still for me.”

Athos whispers a quiet assent and obeys, keeps his legs spread and his ass raised, and waits for Porthos to give him what he needs. He cannot hear the rain anymore. He feels Porthos’ left hand move to the small of his back, feels its steady heat spread through him like ink would spread in water. And then there’s pressure against his hole: hot and slick, and he moans – twitches in anticipation.

He has thought about this so often since they first slept together. Has battled with the need to surrender himself, believed he wanted it too much to remain safe. For giving himself up in this manner means giving himself up entirely – it means putting his life and soul into Porthos’ hands. It is not a simple act of sexual deviance. It is the final step.

Athos can hardly believe how much he wants to take it, how much he wants to belong to Porthos and give his entire being over to him. He thinks it is fitting that he will take that step on his knees, spread open and begging for it.

“Shht, it’s alright,” Porthos murmurs, and strokes his thumb over Athos’ sweaty skin, “I’ve got you, it’s all good …”

Athos squeezes his eyes shut, lost in a wave of affection for this man who touches him so gently one moment, and knows exactly how to use his strength the very next.

The pressure against Athos’ hole builds, as does the heat, and then Porthos is inside, has breached the tight ring of muscle guarding Athos’ entry, and it is the _knowledge_ that he is inside him that takes Athos’ breath away, not any kind of pain.

Porthos’ girth and length may be truly impressive, but Athos has been stretched wider before. It does not hurt.

Nevertheless, Porthos stills.

He does not move, remains where he is with just the head of his cock inside. Both his hands are on Athos’ hips now, fingers splayed wide over Athos’ skin, and Athos is helpless against his body’s reaction: how it goes weak and helpless with pleasure, how everything but his cock goes limp in surrender.

“You alright?” Porthos asks eventually. The way his voice drips over his lips sends a shiver through Athos. He has never heard it go so low before – or so hoarse.

“Yes,” he replies … and it feels as if his own voice comes from somewhere outside his body; he cannot stop the words from forming. “It … it feels so good already …”

Porthos starts to move then, gently presses forward, as his hands hold Athos’ hips, sure and steady. “You enjoy bein’ filled, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Athos admits, and again the words form all by themselves. “Yes … I enjoy it … I – ah – enjoy it so much …”

His words dissolve into moans, and his mouth stays slack and open … until Porthos is all the way inside, fills him so thoroughly that Athos fears he might go mad with bliss.

It only worsens when Porthos leans forward and over Athos’ back so he can whisper into his ear. “You alright?”

Athos’ answering nod is almost frantic. “Yes! Yes, so good …”

Porthos chuckles, low and pleased, and Athos can feel the resulting vibrations in his whole body. “Good. I’m gonna start movin’ then, yeah?”

“Yes,” Athos says again, not quite so desperately this time. “Yes, please …”

“Nh, always so polite …” Porthos brushes a kiss to his cheek before he straightens, the shifting angle causing Athos to grip the blanket so hard that the fabric threatens to tear between his fingers.

Porthos moves leisurely at first, as he always does when they are exploring something new. He gives Athos time to adjust to the sensation, draws back slowly until only the head of his cock remains inside, and just as slowly pushes back in. Then he stills once more, his balls resting against Athos’ ass.

“Good?” he asks, the strain in his voice sending a shiver down Athos’ spine.

“Good,” Athos echoes, because his mind is already afloat, and all the other words have drifted away. “Feels so good …”

So Porthos resumes moving, a little faster this time. “I’m glad you like it,” he tells Athos, and his fingertips press into Athos’ hips a little harder. “I love makin’ you feel good.”

Athos bites his bottom lip and whines, does not know whether it is the words that make his cock twitch, or the way Porthos moves inside him, making him feel impossibly full. The stretch is delicious, sends sparks of pleasure out into his blood – a tingling sensation spiralling out into his toes and fingertips.

Porthos continues the slow movement of his hips, establishes a languid, thorough rhythm that brings tears to the back of Athos’ lids. He is used to feeling Porthos’ heat all around him, is even used to enjoying sparks of it inside of him … is used to the warmth seeping into him when Porthos stretches him open and fills him with his fingers.

This is different.

This heat is overwhelming.

It is too much, and not enough, and Athos finds himself craving more – and pushes back, just once. He freezes when he realizes what he has done. Porthos told him not to move.

Porthos stills, his hands heavy and rough on Athos’ hips. “You want it harder?”

And just like that the tension recedes from Athos’ body and leaves him boneless with relief. He will never get used to the way Porthos treats him when they are together like this. Never will he cease to be grateful for all the kindness he is receiving.

“Yes,” he says, and he turns his face into the bedding and shivers when he realizes that he let the word turn into a sob, “yes, please.”

Porthos’ hands glide higher on his hips. “Next time I’m gonna make you beg for it, eh?”

Athos shivers again. Next time. But not now. Now Porthos pulls out and _pushes_ back in, and Athos’ knees skid a little higher on the bed. The very power behind the thrust wrenches another broken sob out of his throat, and Porthos stills once more, his fingers digging so hard into the skin over Athos’ hips that he is going to leave marks. “Athos?”

“Again – do it again, please!” Athos flushes when he hears his own voice, desperate and thin, begging already.

He forgets his shame when Porthos adheres to his wishes, when he lets his hips snap forward so hard that the sound of skin on skin echoes loudly through Athos’ mind.

The friction alone would be sufficient in reducing Athos to breathless moans – that hot sensation filling him up from inside, to be stretched so wide around Porthos’ cock that he will still feel him come the next day.

Porthos keeps fucking him with steady, hard thrusts, despite the anguished sounds falling over Athos’ lips. Instead of stopping, he holds Athos through it, both hands firm on his hips, and fucks him just the way Athos wants him to – hard and punishing and _relentless_.

Athos has never felt safer.

He loses track of time, does not know for how long Porthos keeps it up – for how long he fucks into him so hard that Athos dismisses from his mind everything but the hot-slick slide of Porthos’ cock inside of him.

Then it stops.

Athos whimpers, and his fingers twitch against the blanket, useless and weak. “Porthos … Porthos, please –“

“Wanna hold you,” Porthos grinds out behind him, voice deep and rough and full of a longing that finds an answering surge of yearning inside Athos’ chest. He leans forward and pulls Athos up by his shoulders, the strength of his hands travelling all the way through Athos’ body.

Suddenly Athos is sitting on Porthos’ lap, tendrils of lust rendering him helpless and immobile like ropes of silk … tying him up, blindfolding him. Porthos’ cock is impossibly deep inside of him, and Porthos puts his arms around Athos’ torso, holds him, just _holds him_ – buries his face in Athos’ neck and takes a deep breath. He’s a lean line of heat all along Athos’ back, holds him up with such tender care that it takes Athos’ breath away.

The new position is not so much uncomfortable as it is overwhelming – the change in angle shifting the pressure inside of Athos, and making him gasp. He might be afraid if it weren’t for Porthos holding him so gently. As it is his head falls backward and onto Porthos’ shoulder, and he takes deep, frantic gulps of air, does not know how to contain the ecstasy he is feeling. He is so full.

His thighs are spread wide over Porthos’, his cock is curving up towards his belly, flushed and leaking, and he cannot move, feels helpless and safe and _loves_ it.

“Feel so good around me,” Porthos is murmuring into Athos’ hair, mouth close enough to his ear to brush it with his lips. “All hot and tight.”

Athos moans and attempts a nod, can barely move with the way the lust turns his blood to liquid fire.

Porthos starts stroking him, lets his rough palms glide over his sweaty skin. Athos’ abdominal muscles twitch beneath his touch, and it feels so good, being held like this. One of Porthos’ hands comes up to tweak his nipples, first the left and then the right. Just when he has Athos squirming on his lap, when he has him moaning without restraint, he brings that hand further up, lets it splay across Athos’ neck. Squeezes.

Athos chokes, and he thinks he is going to come – is going to come from just this, from the pressure on his neck, from Porthos’ hand on him like a collar, and –

“Shht, not yet,” Porthos whispers, and he circles the fingers of his right hand around the base of Athos’ cock. “Stay with me just a while longer.”

Athos whimpers, and his cock twitches, unable to release. The air in his lungs feels as if it was aflame.

“God, I wish I could see you properly right now,” Porthos growls by his ear. “You must look so beautiful all spread out over my lap …”

Athos’ throat escapes a sob, and he swallows, feels Porthos’ fingers on his neck just that little bit tighter – feels the answering bolt of lust shoot right through him and down to his cock.

“Please,” he begs, “please let me come – I need … I need to come, please, Porthos, please!”

“Need to do this in front of a mirror next time,” Porthos murmurs into his ear. “Wanna see your face when you beg …” He releases Athos’ cock then, brushes a kiss just below his ear, squeezes his neck a little harder. “Come on then, love. Come for me.”

Athos’ whole body reacts to the command. He spills immediately, all over his chest and belly, a few drops reaching high enough to land in his beard. It goes on seemingly forever, takes Athos’ breath and his voice away, leaves him weak and sated and so boneless that he would fall forward if it weren’t for Porthos’ hands on him that keep him steady.

He cannot even moan anymore, can only turn his head on Porthos’ shoulder – turn it towards Porthos’ face and nuzzle him, eyes closed and mouth slack, as he is floating back down into his body from heights previously unknown to him.

Porthos is still deep inside, filling him up, is stroking his hands through the mess coating Athos’ skin, covering Athos in his own release. “That’s it, love, just like that … you’ve done so well … came all over yourself for me.”

Athos’ mouth pulls into a smile, blissful and unashamed. He is utterly content in the aftermath of his release, the praise only adding to his happiness.

Porthos keeps holding him for a while longer, until Athos has found back to himself enough to be once more aware of the hard heat still keeping him spread open. He takes a deep breath, tries to blink his eyes into focus, tries to _speak_ – but all that comes out is Porthos’ name.

“Eh, you’re back,” Porthos says, and he sounds so _fond_ that it shakes Athos to his core. “How was that for you? You doin’ alright?”

Athos almost tells him that he loves him. But he told _her_ , once upon a time, told her every day until the one she killed his brother, and he will never tell anyone else.

“Thank you,” he says instead, voice as unsteady as his heart. “I am … I am fine.”

“That you are,” Porthos agrees with a low chuckle. “You ready to take some more? Or do you wanna rest a bit and watch me finish?”

As much as Athos enjoys the sight of Porthos pleasuring himself, it is not what he wants right now. “Come inside … inside of me,” he pleads, licks his lips and closes his eyes as he feels his blood rush to his cheeks. “I want … I want to feel it.”

“I can do that,” Porthos murmurs and kisses his neck. “Love to, actually.” With that he gently lowers Athos back onto the bed, makes sure Athos has his hands beneath him to take his weight … and then he strokes his fingers through Athos’ hair, otherwise unmoving. “You ready, love?”

“Yes,” Athos says and closes his eyes. He will never forget the first time Porthos called him that. He still experiences a peculiar spike of longing whenever Porthos uses the endearment. “I am ready.”

“Alright then.” Porthos is gentle this time. It is not even the same languid rhythm he started with – is not merely slow and considerate. It is _tender_ this rhythm … the way his hands glide over Athos’ back … even the way he grabs Athos’ hips and leaves marks on his skin.

He does not give Athos any warning before he spills – does not say a word. But his hips still, and his hands do the same, and Athos knows even before the heat spreads inside him, before the sensation wrenches a surprised moan out of him and makes him shiver.

Porthos remains quiet all the way through it, but in the end he sighs, deep and heartfelt and content – and brushes a kiss to the spot where Athos’ shoulder blades meet. “Thank you for letting me have that.”

Athos smiles into the cradle of his arms. “You are welcome.”

He feels Porthos smirk against his skin and wishes they could remain like that for the rest of the night. But Porthos moves soon enough, soothes him by gently stroking his hands along Athos’ back. “I’m gonna pull out, alright? Don’t fret if it’s a bit uncomfortable at first.”

“I won’t,” Athos promises him, has seen the impact on Porthos too often to be alarmed. “I will be fine. Go ahead.”

Despite his best efforts, he frowns when Porthos is no longer inside him; when he has to get used to feeling empty and strangely bereft. He had no idea it would be this intense. He whines and turns as far as his exhausted muscles will let him, searching for Porthos like a blind kitten would search for its mother.

Porthos helps him the rest of the way, lies down next to him and pulls him into his arms and close to his chest. “You feelin’ empty?” he asks, and there is none of the usual humour in his voice – he sounds entirely earnest and understanding.

Athos wants to crawl inside of him, inside of all that warmth and bigheartedness and make his home there.

“Yes,” he admits, because there is just no sense in lying, and buries his head against Porthos’ chest. “Terribly.”

Instead of teasing him, Porthos tries to comfort him with his hands and mouth. He only leaves Athos’ side for as long as it takes to get the bowl from the window sill, spilling over with rain, and cleans them both up.

Athos keeps still when Porthos moves a cloth over his chest and in between his legs, when he washes his seed off his skin. He bites his lip when Porthos rolls him over and touches his hole, grips the blanket and takes a few deep breaths. He can feel Porthos’ seed leaking out of him, and he clenches, wants to keep it inside.

He really has taken the final step, he realizes. He has come all the way now.

“Shht,” he hears Porthos murmur. “It’s alright, just relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know.” He wants to say it with a steady voice, with the same unshakable conviction he is feeling, but instead the words come out dazed and overwhelmed. So he takes a deep breath and tries again. “I know, Porthos.”

Saying it helps him to do what Porthos asked of him, and he relaxes, allows Porthos to wipe away all evidence of what has passed between them.

The fire in the hearth is dying when Porthos lies down again and spreads a blanket over them both. Athos immediately pushes back into his arms. “Is it always like this?” he asks, not quite certain what he means – the emptiness when it is over, or the hazy sensation of having someone you trust so deep inside you.

“Depends,” Porthos replies, and raises his hand to let his fingers comb through Athos’ hair, “… on the one you’re with.”

Athos hides a smile against his skin and closes his eyes, uses Porthos’ chest as a cushion. He cannot remember when he last slept in his own bed. He certainly won’t do so tonight.

Athos falls asleep to the sound of the rain outside mingling with the steady drumming beneath his ear. He falls asleep to a gentle hand in his hair, and a warm body next to his … and the knowledge that losing Porthos would kill him.

 

The next morning finds them in the garrison, huddling under the balustrade, waiting for Aramis. D’Artagnan is already with them, sleepy-eyed and sluggish in the grey morning light. He is leaning away from the rain and into Porthos, who drapes an amicable arm over his shoulders and pulls him even closer. “Interestin’ night?”

D’Artagnan makes a little noise of rejection and burrows closer into Porthos’ warmth. Athos watches him with a raised brow, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. The boy is usually not _quite_ so affectionate.

“Jus’ couldn’t sleep,” d’Artagnan murmurs, his nose effectively buried in the folds of Porthos’ shirt, and Porthos lifts his hand to the back of his head, keeps him safely in place.

“Don’t drool on me, you hear?”

D’Artagnan merely sighs and falls asleep like this: standing up and leaning into Porthos, trusting and completely at ease.

Porthos turns his head around when he realizes, looks Athos in the eyes and lifts both brows into an expression of fond amusement. “You wanna explain why people keep fallin’ asleep on me?”

“I have no idea why you would ask _me_ to answer that,” Athos drawls. He wants to tell Porthos why, though: wants to tell him that his sturdy built is at fault, the width of his shoulders and the strength of his hands. It is all that, combined with a mulish desire to protect, and a surprising gentleness towards those he loves.

Clearly, d’Artagnan has picked up on that by now, and has decided to embrace these qualities, or rather, has decided to allow himself to be embraced by them.

Athos wants to tell Porthos all of those things. But not here, not now.

Now Aramis is arriving, just as the rain is letting up, looking dishevelled and somewhat worse for the wear. It is a good look on him, always has been. He saunters closer, rain dripping off his hat, raises his brows when he sees that d’Artagnan is asleep in Porthos’ arms, and grins that sparkling grin of his. “Collecting stray kittens, my friend?”

Porthos huffs. “I kept you, didn’t I?”

Aramis’ grin widens, and he looks up at Porthos with a spark in his eye that is somewhat disconcerting. “Ah, but you didn’t really keep me, did you now?”

Athos hears the bite behind the words and looks toward the ground.

Aramis’ meaning is all too clear to him. Their friend frequently jokes about Porthos abandoning him in favour of Athos nowadays. Usually he does so in a manner preventing Athos from ever being fully sure whether he is speaking in jest, or whether he really does feel abandoned by them. This time he sounds just a smidgen too sincere for Athos’ liking.

When Athos looks up to gauge Porthos’ reaction, Porthos is looking at Aramis with something very much like fond annoyance. “I feed you regularly,” he says. “I get you out of trees and down from window sills. Now and then I even pet your foolish head. _I kept you_.” There is a calm force in Porthos’ voice – an emphasis not nearly as sharp as the one that accompanied Aramis’ words. Instead he sounds almost sad. “‘S not my fault you’re one of those roamin' tomcats, slippin' through a different door each night.”

Athos bites his lip and resumes staring at the ground. He does not like the sensation blossoming inside his chest. Its petals are crimson, with pitch black tips, poisoning the flesh around them. It is much more difficult than it used to be not to blame himself for any discontent that arises between his friends.

He wants to say something, wants to make it all better. But he does not know how, and thus he remains quiet.

“Fair enough.” Aramis’ voice cuts into Athos’ dark mood far more gently than anticipated, and the poison in his chest rolls in on itself like night bloomers touched by sunlight. “Does that make Athos the cat that got the cream, then?” There is sufficient humour in Aramis’ voice now, entwined with something Athos can all too easily call lecherous enthusiasm. “You look particularly satisfied this morning, my dear Athos.”

Athos looks up to find himself the object of a low-burning gaze, intent and curious. He meets Aramis’ eyes and lifts his brow, very aware of Porthos’ presence. It comforts him, that presence, keeps him in place, grounds and strengthens him. “I am.”

The words slip out not so much unbidden as unintentional, and Athos can only blink as Aramis does the same, visibly perplexed. Then something in Aramis’ face shifts, delight brightening his features. “You are?”

To the left of them, Porthos clears his throat.

Athos refuses to blush. “Yes,” he says. He is pleased to note that his voice does not break over the one word, but instead remains smooth and controlled. “I have to thank you for your gift once more.” He lifts his left brow, determined not to give in to his embarrassment and display the slight discomfort he is experiencing. He never did like to publicly owe to his sexual … activities; not when he was with her and could still pretend to be _normal_ – and not now that he is with Porthos, who is so much better to him than she ever was.

But the simple fact that Porthos _is_ better – that he is kind and generous and caring where she was not – inspires Athos to swallow his discomfort and be as honest and open as he dares. At least Aramis will receive his honesty without judgment, won’t think ill of Athos if he does not guard his privacy as strictly as he usually does.

Athos is still looking directly at Aramis when he speaks up again, finds a strange comfort in his friend’s dark eyes, “I do not think I would be able to walk today if it weren’t for your generosity.”

The yard turns very quiet. Aramis stares at him – flabbergasted – as does Porthos. After a long moment of utter silence, d’Artagnan’s voice emerges from the folds of Porthos’ shirt. “I’m still asleep, aren’t I?”

Aramis’ throat leaves a curious noise, and he does not stop staring at Athos when he answers the boy. “So are we all, I fear.”

Athos huffs and finally allows himself to avert his gaze. It moves away from Aramis and over to Porthos, who has by now ceased to stare, but is instead looking at him with something akin to affectionate pride.

Despite his best efforts, Athos feels the blood rise to his cheeks, feels himself flushing beneath his collar. He does not think he has ever been looked at in this manner. He watches Porthos remove d’Artagnan from his chest with tender resolve, watches him straighten and square his shoulders. 

All the while Porthos keeps looking at Athos, and the telltale heat remains in Athos’ cheeks.

Then Porthos tilts his head. “Stables,” he says. “Now.”

There is no command in his voice, despite the briskness of his words. Instead he sounds soft, almost pleading, and Athos finds himself nodding. “As you wish.”

Aramis’ throat produces the same curious noise as before, and he clears it with some emphasis. “I shall make sure that you remain undisturbed.”

“You do that,” Porthos says with an absent-minded undertone – then he advances on Athos, gently grips his upper arm and leads him toward the stables. Athos half and half expects him to pounce as soon as they are through the door and out of sight. Instead Porthos walks him to the corner furthest from the door, past the horses and around the post where the bridles are hanging up.

The light in the stables is dim, falling through the dusty windows in muted spears, and Porthos’ eyes look very dark as he puts both of his hands on Athos’ cheeks and leans down to brush a kiss to Athos’ lips. “You were tryin’ to give me heart palpitations – admit it!” He sounds as shaken as Athos has ever heard him, sends a shiver down Athos’ spine in return.

“I was merely being honest,” Athos says. There is a strange emotion taking hold in his chest. He feels half dazed with the effect his words had on Porthos, and at the same time curiously proud that he managed to say to Aramis what he did.

Maybe he should feel ashamed. It was a rather crass thing to say, after all. Well, maybe not that crass. Maybe just … all too revealing. But his friends do not judge him – so he tries not to judge himself. He may be still blushing, but that is a result of the way Porthos is looking at him, nothing more and nothing less.

Porthos kisses him again. “Well, you bein' honest certainly gave Aramis somethin’ to think about – and I could _feel_ the Whelp blushin’ against my chest!”

Athos closes his eyes and lifts his chin, makes himself at home in the circle of Porthos’ arms and relaxes. “You do not mind that I told them, I hope?” He does not think so, but he has found that it is always better to ask – always better to be sure.

Porthos chuckles. “Not at all, my friend, not at all.” He takes Athos’ silent invitation to kiss him for a third time, draws Athos closer to his chest and takes possession of his mouth. He is being gentle about it, and sweet, and all the things few people would expect from a man who looks like Porthos.

Athos stretches up to meet him and puts his arms around Porthos’ neck. He is dimly aware of their surroundings, of the smell of horses and the stamping of their hooves, but otherwise the stables are quiet, eerily peaceful so early in the morning.

With Aramis and d’Artagnan keeping watch outside there is hopefully no need to be afraid of anyone disturbing them. Athos decides to ignore the remaining concern he is feeling about that possibility, and surrenders himself willingly to Porthos’ kisses.

He likes the way Porthos is holding on to him – likes to be held so tight that he could not get away even if he tried, feels safe in the knowledge that Porthos would never hold him against his will, although he could do it so easily.

He presses up against him, enjoying Porthos’ warmth, and wonders absent-mindedly what Aramis will say when they return to him with kiss-swollen lips, dishevelled, and somewhat out of breath. Thus far they managed to leave him and d’Artagnan out of their relationship as far as all too obvious displays of affection are concerned.

As if he has read his mind, Porthos breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against Athos’. He licks his lips before he speaks, and his hands travel up and down Athos’ back, stroke gently over the leather of his uniform. “Does your sudden _honesty_ mean we’ll be tellin’ the other two dirty stories from now on?” Athos can feel him grin, and his mouth pulls into an answering smile. “I kinda wanna see the Whelp blush again.”

“It does not mean that, no,” Athos says very softly. “But I am not at all surprised that you want to.” He smiles at Porthos, knowing full well that Porthos has not said a single word about what happens between them in the privacy of their respective bedchambers. Neither to d’Artagnan nor to Aramis – despite Aramis’ frequent questions. “You like telling a good story, after all.”

“I think the ones about you will be my best yet,” Porthos whispers, and his eyes turn earnest all of a sudden. “They’re certainly the most surprisin’ ones … the happiest, too, I think.”

His voice is rough, utterly sincere, and Athos feels a warm shiver trickle down his spine. He could not mistake Porthos’ meaning, even if he tried to. He blinks up at him, too overwhelmed by the warmth spreading inside him to answer.

Fortuitously, Porthos seldom needs him to voice his thoughts.

“Speechless, eh?” Porthos kisses the tip of his nose. “Looks good on you.” He smiles softly down at Athos, lifts his right hand to Athos’ cheek, and brushes his thumb over his cheekbone. Athos can do nothing else but look back at him, eyes slightly widened, and lips parted in anticipation of another kiss. “You have very pretty eyes,” Porthos tells him solemnly – and then he grins, wide and joyful, and Athos does not know what to do with the glorious heat spiralling out into his body from inside his chest.

The sensation is so intense as to be almost painful, but Athos finds himself smiling back at Porthos nevertheless – can do nothing but surrender himself to the joy that Porthos’ grin inspires. “There is no need for flattery,” he manages to say, and the slightly breathless aspect to his voice does not surprise him at all, “ … or seduction.”

“Heh, that wasn’t me tryin’ to seduce you,” Porthos chuckles, and the light coming to life in his eyes reminds Athos of Aramis. “I wouldn’t talk about your eyes if I were tryin’ to do that.” His voice has dropped to a husky murmur, and Athos’ body reacts to it like the tides do to the moon. His blood rushes to the surface, leaves him flustered and heated, and Porthos’ grin takes on a predatory edge beneath its soft exterior. “Everyone can talk about your eyes, you see? Everyone knows how pretty they are …” Porthos lets his right hand travel lower on Athos’ back, splays his fingers wide just above the curve of Athos’ ass. “But I believe there’s none too many people who could tell you how pretty you look naked and spread out on the bed, waitin' for them to make you feel good … how you –“

Athos’ throat escapes a wounded sound and he surges up, seals Porthos’ lips with his own and kisses him with needy desperation. Porthos’ words are still echoing through his mind, he can still _feel_ that husky tone of voice glide over his skin; but when he feels Porthos chuckle into their kiss, it startles an answering laugh out of him – soft and timid in comparison to the force of nature that is Porthos’ laugh, but still a genuine sound of amusement. He breaks the kiss and smiles up at Porthos, takes a deep breath. “You are impossible.”

“Eh, you love that,” Porthos murmurs, and kisses him again.

To their left, Aramis clears his throat. “Gentlemen.”

If it were someone else, Athos would be startled into pushing Porthos away. But he knows Aramis too well, is too used to him making an unexpected entrance – so he remains where he is, smiles up at Porthos ere he turns his head to direct an inquiring glance at Aramis. “What is it?”

The smile drops right off his face.

Where he expected a delighted grin or maybe fond annoyance, Aramis looks … almost afraid. His eyes are too wide, his cheeks look pale in the dim light of the stables, and his smile is more of a grimace than anything else. There is a pained aspect to his features that Athos has never seen before, and it makes his stomach lurch with sudden nausea. “What?” he asks again. “What happened?”

Aramis does not say anything, but instead resumes staring at them.

Porthos, always prepared for a more hands-on approach, turns and takes a step towards Aramis – but Aramis lifts both hands in a clear signal of rejection. “Nothing,” he says, and even his voice sounds wrong. “Nothing at all. The Captain merely informed me that we are to protect a tax-payment from Rouen, and are to meet the convoy as soon as possible.” He clears his throat and finally averts his gaze, stares toward the floor. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

The resulting silence is uncomfortable and strained, and Athos frowns and directs a questioning glance at Porthos, who shrugs.

“You did not interrupt anything,” Athos says slowly, keeps his voice carefully smooth. “Thank you for informing us.”

Aramis graces them with a hasty nod and another uneasy smile, and then he turns and walks over to his horse, gets the mare out of her stall and leads her out of the stables and into the yard.

Porthos remains with Athos for just a moment longer, and clears his throat as soon as Aramis is out of earshot. Athos looks him in the eyes and finds there the same worry that has taken root inside his own chest.

“That was … strange,” Porthos says quietly.

“It was,” Athos agrees. “It truly was.”


	2. Chapter 2

It is very quiet for a heartbeat or two. Then one of the horses whinnies softly and stomps its hooves, and Porthos heaves a deep breath. “Should we … I don’t know, ask him what that was all about?”

Athos frowns and stares at the dirty floor. Aramis’ pained countenance is still vivid in his mind’s eye, his discomfort still lingers in the air. Some of the horses pick up oh his mood, and toss their heads in nervous frustration. D’Artagnan’s otherwise so docile gelding makes a loud harrumphing-sound and kicks out against the stall-wall. 

“You can try,” Athos says at length, “but I do not think that he will give you any answers. He would have done that already if he had that intention.”

Porthos grunts, audibly displeased. “Still, I gotta ask him – he looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

Athos merely nods. He wishes he had an explanation for Aramis’ reaction. It cannot possibly be that he got to witness them kissing – Aramis is neither a prude nor so naïve that he could have been in any doubt as to _why_ Porthos had carried Athos off to the privacy of the stables.

“I have to talk to the Captain,” Athos says, and clarifies, when Porthos shoots him a befuddled stare, “about our mission. I would certainly like to receive some details.”

Porthos huffs in acceptance, and then he sighs, deep and heartfelt. “At least that blasted mission will give us some time to figure out what’s goin' on with him. He can’t run away from us while guardin' a chest full of money.”

“He could always let his mare do the running,” Athos comments, and makes to leave the stables, very aware that that was not what Porthos wanted to hear.

“Ey!” Porthos growls behind him, and Athos stops, looks at him over his shoulder. He is expecting a frown, but what he receives instead is a smile, hopeful and warm. “I’ll explain to you about proper seduction after the mission, yeah?”

Athos smiles back at him, surprised and gratified, and nods in agreement. “I am looking forward to it.”

Porthos beams and lets Athos leave unhindered when he resumes walking.

The Captain’s instructions are clear and brief: ride towards Rouen on the main road, take over the chest containing the tax-payments, do not get robbed or killed, return to Paris. It should be easy enough, even with their tendency to attract unwanted attention from all kinds of unsavoury folks.

Athos promises the Captain a quick return, and joins the others in the yard, where Porthos has already led both their horses and tied them to a pole to brush them off.

D’Artagnan and Aramis are busy with their own horses, and while d’Artagnan is still half asleep, and his preoccupied fumbling therefore not at all surprising, Aramis seems to be shutting in on himself quite on purpose.

A quick glance over to Porthos confirms that no explanation has been made, however brief. Athos squares his jaw and tries to focus on getting his horse ready for a lengthy mission of several days in the saddle, instead of worrying about Aramis’ changes of mood.

“I’m going to hate this,” Porthos grouses next to him while he’s brushing off his steed. “This blasted animal still doesn’t like me.” The animal in question uses this opportune moment to step sideways – away from him and into d’Artagnan, who almost falls over, and is saved from that fate by his own horse’s stolid placidity, which allows him to make a grab for its mane and hold himself up.

“It would appear he hates you not quite as much as our young friend.” Athos’ drawl comes accompanied by a gentle touch to the steeds neck, and he carefully coaxes the horse back and towards Porthos, who watches him with a grateful grin.

“Thank you.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Athos says quietly. “He will get used to you eventually. Horses can be … capricious creatures.” His eyes stray towards Aramis as he says it. “You are quite good at handling them most of the time – he will be no different, I am sure.”

Porthos, quite oblivious to Athos’ roaming eyes, nods and resumes brushing his horse off. “Yeah, well, dogs are certainly easier. ‘S a pity they don’t get large enough to ride.”

Athos blinks and returns his attention to Porthos’ face, where he encounters a broad grin and a wink. He huffs and shakes his head in an attempt at aloof sobriety; but the grin refuses to leave the corners of his mouth, and when Porthos chuckles, Athos cannot prevent an answering smile from taking over his face.

When he looks at Aramis once more, he catches him staring, soft-eyed and amazed, very much like a child seeing its first shooting star. Athos smiles at him, because he sees no reason why he should not, and Aramis’ gaze turns sad, despite him smiling back.

Athos does not have the faintest idea what in the seven hells is going on. He almost flinches when Porthos touches his shoulder, and looks up to him in frustrated confusion.

“I’ll try to talk to him,” Porthos mumbles. “Find out what’s goin' on.”

Athos merely nods.

They saddle their horses in companionable silence, and pack sufficient provisions for the time it will take them to collect the tax-money and return to Paris. D’Artagnan seems to finally be adequately alert as he mounts his horse, and affectionately pats the animal’s dark neck. “Shall we then?”

“We shall,” Athos agrees and takes the lead. They make slow progress while navigating the bustling streets of Paris, but once outside the city walls and underneath an open sky, their horses’ strides lengthen, and they carry their heads a little higher.

“Eh, he likes this,” Porthos notes with satisfaction, “maybe this mission won’t be so bad after all.”

Aramis, who has been quiet all this while, casts a suffering glance towards the heavens. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

Porthos snorts and steers his steed so he’s riding next to Aramis; d’Artagnan takes the hint and moves forward and towards Athos. He remains quiet for a few minutes, and allows Athos to bring some distance between them and the other two. Only when they are far enough away to prevent his voice from carrying to their ears does he gently clear his throat. “Should I be worried about Aramis?”

Athos turns his head towards him, startled by the sudden question.

D’Artagnan looks back at him, all patient attention, and Athos realizes that the boy sees far more than one would expect from one so young and volatile.

“I am not sure myself,” he admits eventually. “He certainly seems to be quite … moody today.”

D’Artagnan makes a little noise that’s half scoff and half snort. “You mean ever since the Queen’s picnic-party.” Athos feels his eyes widen and his facial muscles go rigid, and sees d’Artagnan duck his head in sudden remorse. “Oh. You … hadn’t noticed.”

“No,” Athos agrees softly. “I had not.” He turns his eyes towards the road in front of them, while his mind is reeling, and his heart tries to claw its way up his throat. He breathes in deeply and grips the reins a little tighter. The sky is still grey so early in the morning, and the air smells wet and earthy after last week’s rain. Terribly unexceptional weather considering the storm breaking loose inside Athos’ head. “It did not occur to me that he might have been lying to us all this time.”

Athos does not mean to say the words out loud. He does not even notice that he has done so until d’Artagnan’s voice cuts into his mind’s frantic fluttering and brings it to a halt. “I don’t think he was. He means what he says. I just don’t think him being happy for you means he’s happy for himself as well.”

Athos can only blink at the distant horizon as the storm inside him slowly abates. He did not expect such insight from d’Artagnan either. His horse grumbles softly and tosses its dark head.

“And then there’s of course the business with the Queen herself,” the boy continues, his voice soft and concerned. “I have no idea how I would feel about that if I were in his shoes.”

Athos exhales slowly, tries not to be angry at Aramis for that thoughtless indiscretion that still might get them all hanged. He tries to imagine Aramis as a father instead, and his mind is all too eager to present him with memories of his friend carrying a child in his arms – of Aramis singing and crooning, rocking that child, entirely at ease. “You would be hurting,” he says softly.

He does not look at d’Artagnan to gauge his reaction. Instead he contemplates the fields left and right of the road, hopes the rain has not done too much damage to the harvest. It certainly looks more brown than anything else right now.

“You’re probably right,” d’Artagnan agrees after a significant pause in their conversation. “So: Should I be worried?”

Athos briefly closes his eyes. “He has endured worse, to be sure. But treating him with more consideration than usual will probably not have any ill effects. I fear Porthos and I might have been somewhat amiss in paying him the proper attention during these last few weeks.”

“Well, to be fair, he’s been avoiding it,” d’Artagnan says, again far more astute than Athos would have given him credit for. “So don’t blame yourself for that.”

Athos cannot but smile at that remark. It seems he has to look forward to a lot of guidance and wise counsel from his young friend. “I will try not to.”

D’Artagnan blinks at him, possibly surprised by Athos’ affable demeanour, or maybe just trying and failing to hold in the thought currently foremost on his mind, “You seem … happy. With Porthos, I mean.” He blushes and ducks his head right after the words have left his mouth, and Athos, despite experiencing a slight quickening of his blood as well, merely nods.

There is no danger in admitting the truth. “I am.”

D’Artagnan positively beams at him. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Athos is aware that d’Artagnan himself is still pining for Constance and what he had and ultimately could not have with her. That knowledge almost doubles the pleasure of hearing those words, and he slightly dips his head in acknowledgement of his gratefulness. “Thank you.”

D’Artagnan blushes even more and turns his head forward, clears his throat. They ride in silence after that, pass field after field of undamaged harvest, and Athos would feel almost light-hearted if it weren’t for his remaining worries about Aramis.

He is used to frequent changes in his friend’s mood, but never before has he seen that kind of apprehension in Aramis’ eyes he saw in the stables this morning. The more Athos keeps thinking about it, the more certain he becomes that something is fundamentally _wrong_ , that he needs to confront Aramis about it – that there is dire need for discussion.

Athos just wishes he were someone more naturally inclined towards that sort of confrontation. He frowns, his gaze lost somewhere between his horse’s twitching ears, and hopes against all hope that both his and d’Artagnan’s intuition is wrong.

 

They take a rest in a cluster of trees by the side of the road once the sun is at its peak. The clouded grey sky of the last week has opened to reveal its blue once more, and it has become a surprisingly fine day.

Athos watches Porthos take off his hat and then his bandana to drench it in water and wipe it over his face and neck. He suddenly longs to be close to him, to sit down right next to Porthos and just assure himself of his presence – so he does just that.

Aramis glances in their direction as Athos lowers himself to the same boulder Porthos is sitting on, and proclaims the horses to be in dire need of water. “There is a little stream down south by those trees over there. D’Artagnan and I shall take them there, yes?”

He does not wait for any kind of reaction, collects d’Artagnan and the horses, and marches them off.

Next to Athos, Porthos grunts and bumps their knees. “He’s been a pain all morning.”

Athos sighs. “No explanation, then?”

Porthos grunts once more, this time with feeling. “None at all. He was by turns silent and evasively chirpy. Made me want to strangle him.”

Athos sighs once more. “D’Artagnan tells me he has been … _peculiar_ ever since the Queen’s picnic-party.”

“Eh?” Porthos turns his head to stare at Athos. “What do you mean _peculiar_? He says he’s happy for us, and he’s not lyin’ about that … I mostly know when he’s lyin’ by now. He doesn’t do that to us. Not on purpose. Not when he doesn’t have to.”

Athos shrugs and diligently repeats to Porthos everything d’Artagnan has said to him about Aramis’ behaviour and its possible cause – that he longs to be a father to a child he can never claim as his. 

Again, Athos feels an echo of the familiar anger, of the sheer disbelieve at Aramis’ stupidity. Sleeping with the Queen was not only reckless and dangerous in regards to Aramis’ own life and career – and that is bad enough. No, instead of ruining only Aramis, it could ruin them all if it ever came to light, could drag d’Artagnan and Porthos down with them, as well as the Captain and every single man carrying the title of Musketeer. Even if Aramis were the only one to hang, he would make all his brothers suffer with him.

Porthos either has accepted that possibility a long time ago and resolutely ceased to worry about it, or he simply does not blame Aramis for his indiscretion. He rarely does. What Porthos focuses on instead is d’Artagnan’s sudden involvement in the matter. “The Whelp’s been payin’ a lot of attention to Aramis, eh?” He sounds parts impressed and parts annoyed, and Athos smiles at him, albeit a little forced.

“I imagine it was either paying attention to Aramis, or paying attention to his own troubles.”

Porthos, who has been a regular visitor of Constance’s during the past months, softens immediately. They seem to have become friends, even if her husband eyes that development with distrust, if not to say distaste. Apparently Porthos had to threaten him with violence to get him to shut up about it and leave them in peace. Athos caught him debating the perfect murder with Aramis once, and merely told them not to involve him under any circumstance.

He watches Porthos pull a thoughtful face, lips slightly pursed. “Yeah, alright, fair enough. So what do we do? You wanna try talkin’ to him?”

The prospect does not please Athos at all. “I do not think that he would open up to me when he refused to do so for you,” he says quietly. “He has always been more … forward towards you.”

Porthos lifts both brows as he ties his bandana around his head once more, but does not don his hat yet. “Yeah, well, he’s always been more _honest_ with you. Sometimes brutally so. I think you should try him. Maybe you’ll have more luck than I did.”

Athos tilts his head in acknowledgement and does not say anything further. Being close to Porthos has been sufficient in alleviating his worst qualms, and he is able to relax and loosen his shoulders. His gaze strays towards Aramis and d’Artagnan once more, and he is displeased to discover that Aramis seems to keep his distance even from d’Artagnan – has wandered off with two of the horses and lets them drink a little further down the stream.

“If all else fails, you will have to hold him down while I kick the truth out of him,” he murmurs darkly, and Porthos grunts in amusement, bumps their shoulders together.

“As long as you got a plan.”

“Yes,” Athos says dryly, “and what a great plan it is.”

Porthos quickly looks around before leaning in beneath the brim of Athos’ hat, and pressing a chaste kiss to Athos’ lips. “Yours always are.”

He has never before kissed Athos outside of their bedchambers. It feels different, under an open sky – makes Athos feel more vulnerable. He experiences no embarrassment though, does not even look to check whether Aramis or d’Artagnan have seen it.

They know. It does not make any difference. They already know.

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan return to them already on horseback, leading the other two animals by their reigns. Athos stands up first, takes his horse’s reigns from Aramis and climbs into the saddle with practiced ease. As soon as he is safely seated, he turns his gaze on Aramis, careful to betray no emotion. “Please be so good as to lend me your company.”

Aramis’ eyes widen, just ever so slightly, but he smiles quickly enough. “Has d’Artagnan been boring you?”

Instead of putting his indignation into actual words, d’Artagnan merely huffs and watches Porthos mount his steed, congratulates him on his apparent progress with the lively animal.

Athos languorously blinks his lids at Aramis instead of answering, and Aramis’ smile widens, turns more real, more honest – if somewhat flirtatious. “Or do you merely prefer my company to his?”

D’Artagnan huffs again, Athos blinks again, just as slowly. Aramis smirks, performs a little bow over his mare’s neck, accompanied by an inviting hand-flourish. “Shall we then?”

Athos does his best not to roll his eyes at him and gently steers his horse back onto the road towards Rouen. Aramis comes up to ride beside him, close, but not too close, and for a while Athos is satisfied to remain silent and enjoy his friend’s presence by his side.

He waits until Porthos and d’Artagnan have fallen back far enough not to witness anything that might be said, and softly clears his throat.

Aramis is immediately alert. “Oh, not you too, Athos – surely not you too!”

Athos lifts his brows at him and plays at being ignorant of what this is about. “Not me what, Aramis?”

Aramis makes a hissing noise, accompanied by a toss of his head. He looks angry, suddenly, like a cornered animal, and Athos’ stomach lurches. “Aramis –“

“All of you – you, and Porthos, and even d’Artagnan – you seem to be under the impression that I am not allowed to know my own mind!” Aramis interrupts him sharply. “Just because my behaviour seems odd to you it does not mean that I owe you an explanation! But if you _have_ to know it: I was merely surprised this morning in the stables. I had not imagined to encounter _quite_ such a scene as I did.”

Athos stares at him and tries to swallow against the lump forming in his throat. There is nothing unusual in Aramis firing up this fast; he is always quick to get viciously defensive – but generally in defence of someone else. “It was merely a kiss, Aramis.”

Athos’ voice goes very quiet for the last two words, turns into a pained whisper he regrets as soon as it reaches his own ears. But it is too late; Aramis pales, and the hot fury vanishes from his eyes. “Athos, I –“

Athos cannot stop himself from interrupting him, tries to force his voice into something cool and smooth, “So I know that you are either lying to me now, or have been lying to me ever since you came to know about Porthos’ and my … relationship.” His courage almost fails him, and he takes a shaken breath, continues despite the pounding in his ears. “Whichever it is, I simply want you to know that there is no need for you to do that. Whatever it is you think you cannot tell us – you need have no fear to be judged for the truth.” His mind turns a bit quieter after uttering those words, being glad that he finally got to say them. “You have been so kind to me these last few weeks, even after you came to know about my … preferences. I would sooner kill myself than not pay you back in kind.”

When Athos is able to turn his head to look at him, Aramis’ eyes are wide in wonder, and suspiciously wet. “Being with Porthos has certainly loosened your tongue,” he gets out, and his voice only betrays the slightest of wavers. “He’s made quite the impact on you, hasn’t he.”

“Yes,” Athos admits, “he has. Of course he has. Will you now please tell me what is wrong?” He does not mean to sound so anxious, but it seems to have a positive effect on Aramis – softens his eyes as well as his voice.

It does not induce him to be open and honest, though.

“Nothing is wrong,” he claims. “Everything is precisely as it should be.”

Athos grinds his teeth in frustration. Somewhere high above a bird of prey screams. “But you are not happy.”

“I seldom am, Athos. You’ve known me long enough. Rest assured that I do not begrudge you what you have found with Porthos.” He looks into Athos' eyes, and Athos sees nothing but the truth in Aramis’ gaze. “I am indeed most happy for the both of you.”

Athos’ heart does something rather complicated inside his chest, and he almost fails to contain the sudden yearning he experiences. “Then what is it?” he asks, not understanding how he can suddenly be so desperate to hold Aramis in his arms, to hold him close and comfort him. “Do you want to be a father to your child so much that it overshadows everything else?”

Aramis’ brows climb high on his forehead, and he looks so startled that Athos briefly believes that he has said entirely the wrong thing. Then Aramis squares his shoulders and raises his chin, and the smile he favours Athos with is fairly sad. He smiles a lot like that, recently.

Athos misses the old smiles, careless and wild, and free from any shadows.

“Ah, but we both know that I would make a dreadful parent,” Aramis says, assumes the same superficial levity of the last weeks, the same superficial levity Athos is able to see through now without fail.

He frowns. “No. I don’t know that. You risked your life for Agnes and her son, and you were perfectly at ease caring for the child. I would almost say you were entirely in your element.”

Aramis looks startled again, and even sadder, but at the same time curiously grateful. “Yes, well, be that as it may … we both know it cannot be. But thank you for saying what you did nevertheless, even if you don’t mean it.”

Athos wants to slap him. “I mean it, Aramis, of course I mean it. Why would you even doubt that?” Aramis does not say anything in return, and Athos turns his head and regards the muddy road in front of them. “Never doubt that we care about you.”

Aramis still does not say anything, and Athos does not press him to do so. Only when Aramis starts to recount him a story of his youth in the country and the midwife he encountered there, does it occur to Athos that Aramis managed to not tell him anything of significance after all. Athos promptly berates himself for failing at the task Porthos entrusted to him, and is left with an uneasy conscience, dreading nightfall and with it the need to make rest.

Porthos will ask him how he fared with Aramis then, and Athos will have to tell the truth, because he does not ever lie to Porthos.

 

The sun starts to set earlier than Athos would like. They make camp far enough removed from the road to not attract too much attention with their little fire and settle down for the night. The horses are as exhausted as their riders after a whole day in the saddle; they accept the food d’Artagnan offers them, graze, and drink from the nearby stream, and then fall asleep standing up, with Porthos’ steed keeping watch.

Athos steels himself for Porthos’ questions as he tends to the fire and unfurls his bedroll, but Porthos does not ask any. Instead he sits down next to Athos, and shares his food and water with him. He is quiet and solemn, and when Athos looks into his eyes, unsure of what to say, Porthos merely shrugs. “Your face says it all. Don’t fret. It was worth a try – I’m sure you did your best.”

Athos relaxes instantly, and Porthos smiles at him. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Get some rest now.”

D’Artagnan announces that he will take the first watch, and as he is wont to fall asleep if forcefully kept up too long into the night, Athos merely nods at him and lies down.

The ground is not as dry as he would like, nor as even, but he still closes his eyes, determined to get some sleep before it is his turn to take over watch. Porthos lies down right next to him, and his steady warmth is sufficient comfort for Athos to deem himself safe and fall asleep.

D’Artagnan wakes him a few hours later, careful not to disturb Porthos in the process. He walks over to Aramis to lie down beside him, while Athos sits up and clears his head from the remnants of sleep.

It is a clear night, the sky brightened by stars and the new moon casting its light down on them. His horse greets him with a friendly whinny as he takes up his post on a fallen tree a few feet away from his sleeping friends, his back to the dying fire. The air is fresh and crisp, and Athos pulls his cloak tighter around his body and lifts his shoulders against the penetrating cold as he looks out towards the road.

Everything is not so much quiet as _focused_ : Even the littlest sounds seem to echo, and Athos enjoys hearing his friends’ steady breathing mingling with sound of the horses moving about. He focuses on Porthos’ throaty inhales, on the little whistling noise that accompanies his exhales and settles down for a few hours of watch-duty.

One hour passes, languidly, like a stream in a wide, shallow bed. There is a sudden stir between the horses, and Athos jerks upright, confused as to what might have caused their fright. His movement comes accompanied by a sharp pain across his neck – and he recognizes the feeling of cold steel against his skin, just as his blood breaks to the surface.

Someone swears and knocks him over the head with the butt of a knife, and Athos nearly faints from the blow. He does not so much get up as fall forward and onto his feet, throws his cloak off and draws his sword; his free hand is pressed to the wound on his neck, his blood leaking through his fingers, feeling unnaturally hot against the cold digits.

There’s another curse, but his attacker does not fall back or flee; instead he comes at Athos with his knife and a brutal fierceness that probably stems from panic, but does not make him any less dangerous.

Athos sees a murderous resolve reflected in the man’s eyes, and he calls out to his sleeping friends to warn them of the danger, while defending himself with one hand, the other still haphazardly trying to contain the flow of his blood.

His superior reach and swordsmanship afford him a much needed advantage, for there are white spots starting to dance in front of his eyes, and his strength leaves him much faster than it should. His opponent is lithe and quick on his naked feet; he manages to avoid Athos’ blows, and comes ever closer as Athos’ defence weakens. Athos’ heart is pounding, pushing his blood up and out of him, and his head starts to swim. He is going to lose consciousness any moment now.

And then Aramis is there, pushes the threat back with a flourish of his sword, while Athos frantically looks around to make sure that there is not more than one enemy. But all he sees are d’Artagnan and Porthos rushing to his aid, so he allows himself to lower his sword and fall to his knees on the soft, humid grass.

He feels light-headed and slightly nauseous, but if his main artery had been damaged, he would already be flat on the ground, bleeding out.

Nothing to worry about, then.

Porthos goes to his knees right in front of him, gently cradles Athos’ head and makes him look up into a face flooded with worry. “What did he do, where did he –“ Then he must see the blood leaking out from between Athos’ fingers, for he stills, just for one heartbeat, and then there’s fear in his eyes, naked and primal. “Aramis!”

“What is it?” Aramis calls back, slightly out of breath, but otherwise completely at his ease.

Athos closes his eyes. The enemy is already defeated then. He hears Aramis advance and crouch down beside him, hears the soft, pained “No” come over his lips. Then Aramis seems to rally, for there is significantly more force to his next words, “Bring him to the fire, get it going again – I need more light to sew him up!”

Porthos immediately lifts Athos into his arms and moves to stand, carries him over towards the fire d’Artagnan is already feeding with fresh wood. Athos slips in and out of consciousness as Porthos stretches him out on the ground and replaces his blood-slippery fingers with his own to keep pressure on Athos’ wound. He distantly notices a slight tremble to Porthos’ otherwise so steady hands, and sleepily wonders why.

They are all here, his friends, they are all together. He will be fine.

“Porthos, hold his head, d’Artagnan, bring me water!” Aramis’ voice is sharp and precise, and Athos tries to focus on it, tries to keep himself afloat over the darkness threatening to swallow him from below.

Porthos moves to obey his command, and Athos’ lashes flutter open just as Aramis is leaning over him. His eyes are dark and stormy as he carefully cleans Athos’ wound, full of an emotion Athos does not recognize. It might be fear, but it just as well could be anger.

“It’s not that bad,” Athos hears him murmur. “He’ll be fine – he’ll be alright.”

Somewhere behind him Porthos sobs, and Athos wants to tell him that he is sorry, that he never intended to make him cry.

There’s a sudden, sharp pain to his neck, and he gulps in panic, and kicks out into thin air. Porthos shushes him and keeps him forcefully still, his rough hands an indispensable reminder to Athos that he is safe, that nothing can harm him. “It’s alright, love,” he hears Porthos murmur, his voice thick with tears, “it’s alright. Aramis is just sewin' you up – that’s just his needle prickin' you a bit – you’ll be good in a moment. All you have to do is keep still for us.”

Athos slowly lets out the air overflowing his chest; then he closes his eyes and relents, and slightly turns his head so Aramis has better access.

“That’s it,” Porthos says gently, “that’s it, love – you’re doin’ good.”

Aramis resumes his work, and this time the pain isn’t that bad, this time Athos knows why he has to endure it, that it will help him, that Aramis does it to make him better. So he welcomes each prick of the needle, and lets his mind float, focuses on Aramis’ warm fingertips and the way Porthos holds his head, and gives himself over to his friends.

“Has he lost consciousness?” he hears d’Artagnan’s agitated voice – and then Aramis’ answering huff.

“No, he hasn’t.”

D’Artagnan sounds almost in awe, “But he’s so … still.”

“He always is,” Aramis says curtly. “Be quiet, please.”

D’Artagnan apologizes for distracting him and remains silent, and Aramis resumes his work. He is just as quick and precise as he always is, finishes his ministrations by applying healing salve onto Athos' wound, and covering it with a tight bandage. “There you go,” he says, and only now does he allow his voice to go soft and broken, “has he hurt you anywhere else?”

Athos’ lips draw into a weak smile. “He hit me on the head.”

Aramis gently rakes his fingers through his hair in search of a wound, and whistles quietly when he finds the bump the attacker has left on Athos’ scalp. “Ah, yes. That will give you a nice headache come tomorrow morning. Do you feel sick?”

“A little,” Athos admits, and a water-flask appears at his lips.

“Drink,” Aramis urges him, “you have lost some blood. We need to get your fluids back in order.”

Athos feels too weak to object, so he drinks while Porthos holds his head up.

He becomes aware of a slight pressure against his right thigh, and blinks his eyes open to see d’Artagnan’s hand clasped over the fabric of his trousers. It is hesitant, that pressure, but comforting, and Athos closes his eyes once more, concentrates on not spilling any water.

Only when the flask is empty does Aramis take it away and softly ask d’Artagnan to fill it up once more. The boy’s fingers twitch in the folds of Athos’ trousers, but then he gets up.

Athos murmurs a hoarse “Thank you”, and Aramis shushes him immediately.

“Don’t talk.”

Athos opens his eyes and tries to glare at him, but it falls sadly short.

“Don’t do that, either,” Aramis says, gentle and touchingly upset. “You’ll exhaust yourself.” He then asks Porthos to move Athos away from the fire so he is not in danger of burning himself, and busies himself with preparing Athos’ bedroll. He puts a make-shift cushion under Athos’ head after Porthos has put him down as gently as possible, drags Athos’ cloak as well as his own over him, and sits down on the ground beside him. “Now sleep.”

Athos only waits for d’Artagnan’s return and to make sure that Porthos is by his side right next to Aramis, then he gladly obeys that command.

 

Athos wakes up to a pounding head-ache and slight nausea. His feet are cold, and his neck itches, and –

“He’s awake.” Porthos’ voice is low and gritty, but undeniably relieved.

Athos frowns and blinks his eyes open against a viciously stabbing ray of sunlight. Athos has no idea how it might be doing that. The sky is grey, overhung with clouds. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’ll come to you in a second, I’m certain,” Aramis says lightly. “Please keep still – I want to make sure your head is alright.”

Athos’ frown deepens and he blinks at Aramis as he leans over him and pulls down the skin below his left, and then his right eye, presumably to get a better look at his pupils.

“Seems to be in order,” he mumbles. “Alright, you may sit up – carefully.”

Athos huffs and moves, and only gets two inches off the ground, as Porthos grips both of his shoulders and hinders his progress with gentle but stubborn determination. “He said carefully.”

Athos has no other choice but to let Porthos help him the rest of the way. Once he is upright, last night’s memories have returned to him, and he winces, lifts a somewhat trembling hand to the bandages across his neck.

“Yes,” Aramis says immediately, “let me have a look at that, too.”

Aramis is careful while loosening the bandages, but Athos still has to fight his body not to shrink from his touch. It is no matter of being afraid of Aramis hurting him. It is the fact that Athos remembers now – remembers how it felt last night when Aramis touched him there, how it felt when he brought the needle to his skin.

Aramis has left another mark on him, and Athos is not sure as how to feel about that. He does not mind, not really – not at all. But he thinks Porthos might.

Aramis’ fingertips are warm on his skin, and his eyes are dark and full of focus. “We thought we’d lost you,” he whispers, and encounters Athos’ look of startled guilt with a brilliantly honest smile. “Porthos cried again.”

“Oh shut up,” Porthos grouses, but his grip on Athos’ shoulders turns into a caress. “As if you wouldn’t’ve!”

“My eyes were perfectly dry the whole time,” Aramis claims, puts fresh salve on Athos’ wound, and hides it beneath another bandage. “As were d’Artagnan’s.”

“Leave me out of this,” comes d’Artagnan’s voice from somewhere behind Athos’ head. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“Not immediately, no,” says Aramis lightly. “Thank you for asking.”

Athos sighs and closes his eyes. “What have you done with the body?”

Because there cannot be any doubt as to what has happened to his attacker. Aramis wouldn’t have let him live.

“Buried it,” Aramis says coldly. “I can only assume he had planned to make off with our horses. He did look somewhat … desperate.”

Athos swallows against a sudden lump in his throat. “I need to apologize – I should have paid better attention last night.”

“Well, yes,” Aramis agrees. “I could have done without the sight of your bleeding neck. But since you are alive, you are forgiven. Don’t do it again.”

With that he gets up and walks away, and Porthos moves to sit behind Athos, lets him lean back against his chest. He is just as warm as he always is, and his closeness offers immediate comfort. “He almost did cry, you know – his hands were shakin’ somethin’ awful after you’d fallen asleep.”

“I am sorry,” Athos says quietly.

Behind him, he hears d’Artagnan make a soft sound of objection, and then the boy moves into his field of vision, hands him a water-flask. “Don’t be. How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” says Athos dryly. But he accepts the water with a grateful nod, and empties it in one go.

D’Artagnan looks shaken and pale, and Athos has no idea how to make him understand that what happened last night is almost common-place for them … that they always get hurt, one way or another. D’Artagnan was there, after all, the day that axe struck Porthos’ shoulder, and they almost lost him.

In comparison, Athos’ own wound amounts to no significance at all.

“How late is it?” Athos asks to forget about the guilt lingering in the pit of his stomach. “Have I overslept?”

D’Artagnan blinks at him, confused. “Overslept? Surely you do not mean to go on?”

Athos lifts both brows so high they threaten to vanish into his hairline. It hurts a little, considering the bump on his head, but Athos decides to ignore that pain. “We have a mission, d’Artagnan. Surely you do not expect me to return to my King empty-handed and explain to him that I gave up because of a mere scratch?”

Behind him, Porthos sighs. “Aramis won’t approve.”

“All I have to do is remain in the saddle,” Athos perseveres. “I am quite certain it will not result in my head falling off.”

“One can only hope so,” Porthos agrees. “I would dearly miss it.”


	3. Chapter 3

As expected, Aramis is not at all in favour of Athos’ decision to continue their mission as if nothing has happened.

“You are gravely injured!” he says. “You lost far too much blood to even contemplate three more days in the saddle!” he says. Then he turns, points an accusing finger at Porthos “You! You immediately stop this nonsense!”

D’Artagnan displays a rare understanding of tactical retreat and moves towards the horses when he hears him shouting; Porthos, who is in the process of assisting Athos out of his shirt so he can wash last night’s blood off his skin, stills and scrunches up his face. “You know how he gets.”

“I am right here,” Athos reminds him in a languid voice. He feels slightly guilty for worrying his friends, but since he is adamant to continue the mission, there is no sense in voicing this sentiment. It would only supply Aramis with more ammunition.

Aramis throws up his hands, his body a clear-cut outline against the grey of morning. Somewhere in the distance a bird is singing rather persistently. “You need rest!”

“I have had sufficient rest,” Athos says and keeps still for Porthos to clean him up, his familiar touch wonderfully soothing. “Now please stop with your mothering.”

Next to him, Porthos lets go of an amused snort. “If he’d been the one to get hurt, you’d drag him back to Paris by his hair.” His voice is just rough enough to inform Athos of the fact that Porthos does not like his decision either, but has determined to keep silent about that fact.

Athos never fails being grateful for that: That Porthos still yields to his decisions, that he allows Athos to be the one in charge when they are in public, despite what happens between them in the bedroom.

Porthos never reminds Athos who his master is, no matter where they are, never lays a restraining hand on him if it isn’t his intend to _protect_ ; and he always, _always_ listens to Athos’ commands and treats them just the way he did before they fell into bed together.

That does not mean that he always obeys – but he is respectful and earnest in the way he voices his dissent, and makes sure that Athos understands why he does not do his bidding. Since Athos never liked blind obedience, not in his servants and certainly not in his friends, he has by now come so far as to enjoy the instances when Porthos shows a turn for the impertinent – even if he does so by saying nothing at all, if he merely implies what he is really thinking by his tone of voice.

“I do not have to remind you that I am in command of this mission and therefore responsible for its success, do I?” Athos asks him placidly, and Porthos briefly shakes his head.

“Nah, I know full well why you’re bein’ stupid.” He sounds so fond that Athos has no idea what to say in return.

“Are you two even listening to me?” Aramis comes closer and crouches down right next to Athos. He is clearly upset, his eyes full of worry. “Athos, please don’t do this! We can return to Paris, explain to the Captain what happened, and get someone else to take over the mission.”

“No, we cannot,” Athos contradicts him. “We would lose too much time. The convoy from Rouen is expecting us tomorrow – sending someone else would result in too much of a delay.”

Aramis hisses in frustration. “Blast the damn delay – this is your life we’re talking about!”

“Hardly that,” Athos says coolly. “You stitched me up, did you not? The bleeding is taken care of, and the rest I can handle.”

Porthos carefully clears his throat, and just as carefully touches Athos’ naked shoulder. His hand is warm, his palm and fingertips rough, and Athos has to suppress a shiver. “Will you rest when we ask you to?”

Athos almost tilts his head to consider the question, but does not when he remembers his stitches. “If you are not being unreasonable about it, I will, certainly, yes.”

“Unreasonable,” Aramis mutters, but his hands, when he brings them up to Athos’ scalp to feel for the bump on his head, are gentle, “the only one being unreasonable is you.” His fingertips stray over the bandages across Athos’ neck when he lowers his hands, infinitely careful. “Have you eaten?”

“I have,” Athos says quietly. “There is really no need for your worries.”

“Eh, let him worry,” Porthos says from his other side. “I’m worried too, you see – there’s really nothin’ you could do to stop that.”

“Apart from getting hurt, maybe,” Aramis chimes in. “That would help.”

Athos glares at him, and Aramis winks back. Strangely enough, it makes Athos feel better. It is always easier when they all join forces in pretending that nothing is wrong.

“Are you done shouting?” comes d’Artagnan’s voice from the direction of the horses. Apparently the boy is a natural when it comes to playacting. Athos should have known. He has witnessed d’Artagnan doing precisely that on more than one occasion.

Aramis’ head whips towards the boy, and he grins at him. “Did I scare you?”

“Not at all,” comes the aloof reply. “The horses were quite a different matter, though.”

Athos smiles, despite the pounding in his head.

They continue their journey shortly afterward, remove all traces of their camp and get back into the saddle. Athos has to suffer not only one overprotective mother-hen in the form of Porthos, who more or less lifts him up onto his horse and then presumes to check the stirrups for correct length, he also has to endure Aramis’ fixated staring, as well as d’Artagnan’s frequent offers to supply him with water.

It is most annoying.

It would perhaps be less annoying if he was feeling better – if he could be amused as well as touched by his friends’ protectiveness instead of having to concentrate all his resources on staying in the saddle.

He feels exhausted, sick and _weak_ , but since he is not planning on sharing that fact with anyone, he grinds his teeth and keeps on riding. He has endured far worse, to be sure. He will get through this as well. All he has to do is stay upright.

He does not say anything when Aramis calls a halt a mere two hours after they have set forth. He does not complain when Porthos pulls him off his horse, nor does he reject d’Artagnan’s offer of water. He merely sits himself down on a handy boulder and closes his eyes, empties the water-flask d’Artagnan has handed him. His skin itches beneath the bandage on his neck.

“You’re an idiot,” Porthos informs him gruffly. He does not add anything else, merely sits himself down next to Athos and allows him to lean against his shoulder, puts his arm around Athos’ waist. Aramis keeps his distance for now, but Athos can feel him hovering.

“How’s he holding up?” d’Artagnan asks from somewhere to their right, his voice anxious. Porthos merely growls.

They have picked a quiet spot where the road cuts through a little forest. The trees are old, have grown into a canopy high above, shroud them in shadows. It is almost cold with the autumn chills creeping in, and Athos takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I am fine,” he claims.

“What you are is a stubborn fool,” Aramis corrects him flippantly. He finally comes closer, puts his right hand beneath Athos’ chin, lifts his head and looks into Athos’ eyes. “But at least you’re a _tenacious_ fool. No fever yet.” He brushes the back of his hand over Athos’ forehead to be certain, and Athos briefly closes his eyes.

It feels nice, to be touched like this, eases the pounding in his head.

Aramis retreats far too soon. “We’ll bring you back to Paris on a wheelbarrow – I just know it.”

“We’ll do no such thing,” Porthos growls. “He’ll be fine. You said so last night.” He sounds almost petulant, as if he considers Aramis’ words a breach of trust he might never recover from. His faith in Aramis’ healing capabilities has always been unshakable. The fact that none of them has died yet might be at fault for that.

Aramis himself is for once deplorably pragmatic. “Ah, yes, I did say that – but what I _meant_ , my dear Porthos, was that he would be fine given he’d allow himself to rest and his body to heal. I really should have known better.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, stubbornly sardonic. “You should.”

Aramis narrows his eyes at him.

“Well, arguing about it certainly doesn’t help anyone.” D’Artagnan gently pushes Aramis to the side, takes the empty flask from Athos and hands him a full one. “Least of all Athos.”

Athos bestows silent gratitude upon his head, and drinks more water.

“Who says I want to help him?” asks Aramis with just the right amount of vitriol in his voice. “I’m berating him! I’ve been waiting for this moment for years!”

“Then by all means – go on and get it all out,” Athos encourages him, as he wipes some errant drops of water from his chin. “You have most certainly earned it.”

Porthos growls again, and Aramis keeps wisely silent.

They ride on shortly after that. The road mostly leads through open fields that offer little protection from the elements, and Porthos steers his steed so close to Athos’ horse that their knees are constantly brushing. Athos feels slightly better after his rest, and his horse’s movements beneath him no longer make him nauseous.

He is glad for the overhung sky touching the horizon somewhere in the distance, although the wind blowing across the fields from the east is slightly cold; but it is easier to breathe in this kind of weather, and his lungs expand effortlessly. He keeps his gaze fixed on his horse’s ears and depends on the animal as well as on Porthos to keep him on the right track.

Aramis makes him rest roughly every two hours, makes sure he drinks, forces him to eat, and checks his eyes for signs of trauma. His touches continue to be gentle, although his eyes proclaim a deep-rooted frustration; and when they stop once more late in the afternoon, Athos feels brave enough to pull him to the side, away from the others. “What is it, Aramis?”

The wind has picked up and billows their capes around them, and Aramis turns so his back is to it, tries to shield Athos with his body. “You’re hurt,” he says testily. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Maybe Athos shouldn’t have drawn him away from the shelter of the trees d’Artagnan and Porthos are still huddling behind. But he did want to talk to Aramis in private.

“One of us always is,” Athos says, entirely reasonable. “We seldom let that get in the way of anything.” He hesitates, then carefully places his hands on Aramis’ upper arms, squeezes. “I am not going to expire from this; you know that.”

For a long moment, Aramis does not say anything in return. His face is expressive as ever, though, and his emotions chase each other across his features: anger and fear and _helplessness_.

“He cut your neck!” The words explode out of Aramis, leave him shaking and enraged; Athos refuses to recoil from him. Instead, he grips him firmer, offers tangible proof that he is far from dead. Aramis continues as though he is unable to stop the words from breaking out. “He cut your neck and I didn’t even notice! I ran past you and attacked him instead of taking care of you right away!”

Athos blinks at him, and his wits are slow to come to his aid. Maybe he lost more blood than he’d thought after all. “It was dark,” he says slowly. “You saw a threat and you disposed of it – then you took care of my wound. I really do not see how you could blame yourself for anything you did last night.”

The wind picks up Athos’ cape once more and lets it billow out behind him, tugs at the strings that keep it bound around his shoulders.

Aramis just looks at him, wide-eyed and helpless. Then he swallows and stares at the ground. “I thought I’d lost you.” His voice is almost too soft to hear, and if it weren’t for the wind blowing in Athos’ direction, he probably wouldn’t have. They are almost the same words Aramis said this morning, but they sound entirely different now.

Aramis’ gaze turns distant and tortured, and Athos’ heart sinks down into his stomach, starts to ache with fierce compassion. Savoy, his helpful brain supplies; as if his heart was not in a bad enough condition already; he made him think of Savoy – made him think of all the brothers he lost that day.

“But you did not,” he hears himself say after a long moment of silence. He is the one to place his hand beneath Aramis’ chin now, is the one to make him look up and into his eyes – is resolved to be the one to comfort a friend in need at least once in his life. “You did not lose me, Aramis. I am still here.”

Aramis escapes a wounded noise, and he moves, leans his forehead on Athos’ shoulder and places both hands on his waist. Athos allows him to remain in that position for a heartbeat or two, keeps himself upright and steady; but then he pulls Aramis closer, gives him a proper hug. “I am here,” he murmurs again.

Aramis clings to him with helpless desperation, and Athos feels him tremble inside his arms. “I am sorry,” he whispers, pushes his right hand into Aramis’ hair and gently cradles his head. He absent-mindedly wonders if this is what Porthos feels when he is holding him – if it results in the same bitter-sweet pain inside his chest, if it makes him feel just as weak, just as strong. “I never meant to cause you pain.”

Aramis takes a deep breath and lets go, takes half a step back. He is still close enough for Athos to touch, still close enough so Athos can cup his cheek, his fingertips brushing into Aramis’ hair. He does not know what to say, does not know how to dispel the lost look from Aramis’ face.

Aramis frees him from that burden by smiling at him, warm and honest, if a little shaken. “Porthos really did make quite the impact on you, didn’t he?”

Athos looks at him for a moment, before leaning in and bestowing a kiss on his forehead. “He did not change the way I feel about you,” he murmurs.

Aramis’ throat escapes a broken noise, and this time he is the one to initiate a hug – is the one to put his arms around Athos and pull him close. Athos allows his lashes to flutter shut, and lets the sensation wash over him, tries to contain the wave of affection trying to drag him under. Aramis’ hug feels completely different than Porthos’, but just as comforting, just as soothing.

“Are you two alright?” Porthos appears next to them very much out of nowhere. His voice is not so much worried as hesitant, but Aramis still startles; and he pulls back from Athos with a look of guilty alarm on his face.

Porthos catches him neatly by the elbow. “Relax, Aramis, ’s just me.” He casts an assessing look over his friend’s expressive features and promptly pulls him in and against his side, drapes one arm over his shoulders. With Porthos, such a gesture is sufficient to keep even the most reluctant man captured, and he now has all the time in the world to bestow his attention on Athos. “You alright?”

“I am,” Athos confirms with a calm smoothness he does not feel. “It is Aramis you should worry about.”

Porthos promptly looks down at the man trapped beneath his arm. “I should?”

“Yes,” Athos says softly. “My injury … stirred up memories.”

For a moment, Porthos looks confused, then understanding clears his brow. “Oh.” He slowly turns, tries to catch Aramis’ eyes, who gives his best to look anywhere but at Porthos. Porthos frowns. “Come here, Aramis, look at me.”

Aramis reluctantly looks up at that, and Porthos smiles down at him, gentle and affectionate. “There you go. You need me to do anythin’ for you? You just gotta ask, you know – and I’ll do it.”

The sudden pain in Aramis’ eyes startles Athos, but Porthos does not budge.

“I can’t ask anything of you,” Aramis whispers. “You’re already doing too much.”

Porthos’ brows draw together in a confused frown. Athos cannot blame him. This might be the first time Aramis shows any signs of modesty where his demands on their friendship are concerned. Porthos reacts to the unforeseen display with his usual combination of bluntness and generosity. “Nonsense. You wanna go back to huggin’ Athos? Did that help you?”

“No!” Aramis almost yells the one word, and this time Porthos is just as startled as Athos. “I mean – no, thank you. I feel better already.” Aramis is lying through his teeth at them, Athos is certain about that. He watches Aramis gracefully slither out from beneath Porthos’ arm and take a few steps back, does not know how to prevent it. “Your concern is gratifying, gentlemen, but entirely misplaced.”

With that Aramis more or less runs off and back to d’Artagnan – leaves Athos to the confused ache in his chest, and Porthos to growling dissatisfaction. “Why does he keep doin’ that?”

“I do not know,” Athos says quietly, and runs his hands through his hair in frustration – upsets his head-wound and flinches. “I do not know.”

 

They make camp for the night slightly earlier than they would do under normal circumstances. Porthos simply refuses to go on when he spots a barn conveniently close to the road, and plucks Athos off his horse. He follows that act of mutiny with sending d’Artagnan off to ask the barn’s owner for permission for them to spend the night in it. That worthy farmer’s house stands a little removed from the road, nestling between some trees on top of a little hill towards the east.

Cows and sheep are grazing at the foot of that hill, safely fenced in, and the wind carries the clucking of chicken to their ears, as well as the occasional grunt from a pig.

While awaiting d’Artagnan’s return they busy themselves with building a fire sheltered from the wind on the west side of the barn. He does take quite a while, and Aramis gets impatient, which surprises precisely no-one. “We should have sent Porthos,” he says in an annoyed undertone. “He’s always quick to get what we want from the rural population.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees and directs a little smile at Porthos, “usually by scaring the milk-maid.”

“That happened one time,” Porthos contradicts him in a hurt voice, “and I made my apologies to her right away.”

“I am aware you parted as friends,” Athos says. “I believe she named a kitten after you.”

Porthos scoffs and makes him sit down with his back to the barn, close enough to the warmth of the fire, but not too close. Aramis has been keeping his distance since their last halt, and Porthos seems to believe he has to smother Athos in both his own as well as Aramis’ care now.

So Athos does his best not to give him any reason for additional distress, and forbids himself to complain about his itching neck. He is too used to that itching sensation to worry about it, knows that it is a normal symptom of his skin knitting itself together. It will pass, as it always does. He merely needs to refrain from scratching.

“How are you feelin’?” Porthos asks him once he has made Athos reasonably comfortable and folds his tall frame down right beside him. “How’s your head?”

“Clear enough,” Athos says softly. “I am not feeling sick any more.”

Porthos grunts in answer and then steals a glance towards Aramis. “You gonna get upset with me when I tell you I’m worryin’ about him almost as much as I’m worryin’ about you?”

He sounds guilty and annoyed with himself – or maybe he is annoyed with Aramis for once, for causing him additional alarm when there is no apparent need.

“Not at all,” Athos tries to soothe him. “I think in fact that he is giving you far more reason.”

“Don’t make me kick you,” Porthos warns quietly. “I’ve seen you wince plenty today. You’re not as good an actor as you think you are.”

“Slander,” Athos says gravely. “I should call you out.” 

D’Artagnan returns before they can stray further into squabbling, and brings with him a jug of milk as well as half a dozen eggs and a few slices of ham.

“Charmed it off the milk-maid, eh?” Porthos asks as he takes the food off his hands, and d’Artagnan grins and ducks his head.

“The farmer’s wife, actually.”

“Good boy,” Aramis praises him, “proper food will do our dear Athos a world of good.” He at least sounds like his usual volatile self, even if something dark still haunts the depths of his eyes.

Athos is ready to take what he can get. “I am willing to share,” he offers magnanimously, just as d’Artagnan produces a pan from a jute bag. “You seem to have instilled a somewhat disproportionate trust in the farmer’s wife,” Athos remarks archly.

D’Artagnan grins at him. “I gave my very best. Madame even convinced her husband to let us have some oat for our horses – there’s some in the barn it seems.”

Athos can only stare at him. D’Artagnan is certainly spending far too much time in Aramis’ company.

“That is very generous of Madame and her husband, but we will pay for anything we claim for the horses,” Athos tells him decisively. “As well as for the food she gave you.”

D’Artagnan shrugs, and Aramis gently teases him for his apparent powers of seducing elderly women, while Porthos fries the eggs. D’Artagnan explains that Madame’s father was rescued from highwaymen by a musketeer once when she was ten, and has since then an unshaken belief in the sanctity of that title. He urges Athos to drink some of the milk.

“It’s fresh,” d’Artagnan discloses. “Should still be a bit warm.”

“It is,” Athos says, and hands the jug over to Aramis. “I will convey my gratitude to Madame ere we ride on tomorrow.”

They eat the food so generously bestowed on them together with some bread and cheese they brought from Paris, and then inspect the barn. It is a window-less building, clearly built for storage purposes, and currently rather full of hay, with the occasional sack of oat standing about. There’s an open space in the middle, more than big enough for four grown men to sleep in. If they want to, they can even take the horses inside with them. According to d’Artagnan Madame’s husband has already offered to stable them with his cows for the night though, so they send the boy off to their benefactor again, this time with the animals.

“Much better than sleepin’ out in the open,” Porthos says cheerfully. “I still got a crick in my neck from last night.” He blinks down at Athos, standing next to him in the open door. “Will be better for you as well.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Athos says testily. “I am an invalid and couldn’t possibly sleep under an open sky two nights in a row.”

“Just that,” Porthos concurs and gently shoves him further into the barn. “Go on, get in there and sit your arse down. We’ll take care of everythin'.”

Athos decides that it would be far too exhausting to disobey him, and does as he is told. He watches his friends make a bed out of hey and blankets, and allows them to assign him his place in their midst, comfortably fenced in by Aramis and Porthos. D’Artagnan, who has returned to them by now, is sleeping slightly further apart – the first obstacle to stumble over, should they have uninvited visitors during the night.

Athos lies down on his back and stretches out carefully, one hand beneath his head. He feels worn out after a day in the saddle, and his whole body aches now that he allows his muscles to relax. The pain in his shoulders will stay with him for a while.

“You go ahead and go to sleep,” Aramis says briskly as he sits down on Athos’ left side, his hair sticking up in places after a quick wash outside in a trough that has collected last week’s rain. His shirt is hanging open to reveal his chest and stomach almost down to his navel. He manages to look very forbidding, despite all that. “We’ll guard you in turns.”

“The horses,” Athos says obstinately, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. “You will guard the horses.”

Aramis’ face loses most of its rigid control, and he smiles softly down at him. “No. Certainly not. The horses, as you very well know, are safely stabled with that worthy farmer’s cows.”

Athos looks back at him, strangely grateful for that smile. “Do you want to look at my wound?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Aramis decides. “We don’t want to disturb it too often. Or does it bother you?” He leans forward and over Athos, stretches his hand out and carefully touches the bandages. “Does it feel hot? Did I bind you up too tightly?”

“No – no you did not, it does not bother me,” Athos says quickly. For a moment he almost enjoys Aramis’ concern. That discovery alarms him, and he clears his throat. “I am feeling surprisingly well, all things considered.”

Aramis slowly exhales and draws his hand back. “How very relieving. We shall wait till morning then, yes?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, and closes his eyes, feels Porthos lie down to his right. “Just as you say.” He falls asleep almost instantly.

 

The next morning comes early and accompanied by a light rain. Athos can identify its steady dripping on the roof of the barn even before he is fully awake, and he sighs, catalogues his various aches and complaints with closed eyes. His neck itches again, and his bandages are starting to irk him. When he opens his eyes, Aramis is asleep against his chest, and both of his hands are clutching the fabric of Athos’ shirt.

“He tried to stay up all night,” Porthos says quietly from behind him. “Can’t blame him.”

Athos very carefully clears his throat, and Porthos places a gentle kiss high up on his neck, just beneath his ear. “How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough,” Athos whispers back. He feels peculiar, with Aramis so close and Porthos’ sturdy heat at his back at the same time. Aramis’ face is lax in sleep, peaceful and almost happy; there is a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth Athos would feel inclined to call innocent, if it were anyone but Aramis.

He wants to touch that smile the same way he sometimes touches Porthos’ face while he is still asleep. The thought startles Athos so much that he nearly flinches away from Aramis.

“What?” Porthos asks instantly. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

There is just enough sharp concern in his voice to wake Aramis. He blinks his eyes open, disoriented and confused, and goes very still when he realizes where he is.

“Good morning,” Athos says softly.

Aramis’ face loses all sweetness of sleep, and looks almost haggard in the unflattering light falling in through the open door. The hollow expression in his eyes worries Athos – and he does not like the way Aramis pulls away from him either.

“Good morning,” Aramis replies, his voice unsteady. His eyes flick over Athos’ face without rest – evasive. “I trust you slept well?”

“Very,” Athos says softly. “How could I not, knowing I was so well guarded?”

Aramis’ mouth pulls into something that is supposed to be a smile, and he sits up, his hands balled into firsts at his sides. “Your neck?”

“Still attached to my head.” Athos looks up at him, wondering which of his numerous sins let to Aramis being reluctant to touch him all of a sudden.

“Let me have a look at it.”

Athos promptly sits up and feels gratified when that does not result in a bout of nausea. He keeps still while Aramis loosens his bandages and breathes a sigh of relief once they are off, closes his eyes.

“No inflammation,” Aramis comments, audibly pleased, “and the stitches are holding up nicely.”

“Nobody doubted _that_ ,” Porthos says quietly. “The Whelp’s gone to get fresh milk and eggs from Madame – I’ll get a fire goin’.”

With that he gets up and leaves them alone, not precisely subtle as to why. Athos clears his throat. “I take it you do not want to talk about yesterday?”

Aramis busies himself with untangling a fresh set of bandages so he doesn’t have to look at him. “There is nothing to talk about. I suffered a brief lapse into the past, and now I’m recovered.” He looks up, quickly and almost shy. “Thank you for helping me through it, though.”

“Don’t mention it,” Athos says automatically.

Aramis grins at him. “I’m not the one who did.”

 

They breakfast in silence, each far from well-rested, and further irritated by the prospect of a ride through the rain. It does not let up, not while they collect their belongings in the barn, and not when they go to make their thanks to Madame and her husband. It is a very fine rain, misty and thorough, leaves gleaming drops in Aramis’ hair and Porthos’ beard – threatens to dampen Athos’ bandages.

“This won’t do,” Aramis grouses when he realizes, and pauses in saddling his mare. “The wound needs to stay dry. The skin will swell when it gets wet, and not heal properly.”

Athos, who was roundly forbidden to even assist in preparing his own horse, raises both brows. “And what would you have me do?”

Porthos, always the pragmatic one, simply takes off his hat, and then his bandana. “Come here.” Athos does as he’s told, moves toward him as if on strings, and Porthos winds the sturdy fabric across his neck, securely covering the bandages. “There you go.”

Athos swallows against the added pressure on his skin, and feels his blood rise to his cheeks. “Thank you.”

There is no mistaking the dark, knowing look Porthos shoots him. “Always.”

Athos mounts his horse shortly afterward, takes his leave of Madame and her husband, who wish him and his brothers a safe journey, and urge them to beware of highwaymen. Athos makes a solemn promise to be at his guard, and rides off, Porthos snickering beside him.

“What?” Athos asks, when the snickering won’t stop. “What ails you now?”

“You!” Porthos says, highly amused, “promising those poor folks to be careful. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a lie more brazen than that!”

A grin tugs at the corners of Athos’ mouth, but he does not give in to it. “Nonsense,” he says, his bearing as dignified as it gets, “have you forgotten the day I complimented the Queen on her cooking?”

“Never!” Porthos’ mirth shines out of his eyes, crinkles their corners and makes Athos forget that the sun is hiding behind clouds again this morning. It has always been like this – Porthos would laugh, and Athos would feel better … warmer and less ill at ease, no matter how low his memories had dragged him the night before, no matter how much he’d had to drink.

Now, with his guilt not as heavy as it used to be, and with the memory of her no longer foremost on his mind, Athos finds that Porthos’ smiles make him long for privacy: for kisses and touches, a warm hand on his skin, holding him in place.

They ride west for a while, until they encounter another little forest, and the road makes a sharp northward bend. They come upon a group of other riders rather unprepared. Athos should have expected it, with the forest floor covered in wet leaves, yielding beneath their horses’ hoofs, and softening every sound.

There’s less than half a mile between them now: four men on horseback, just like them. The gloom of the forest does not allow them to identify them even over so short a distance, and Athos more knows than sees Aramis feeling for his musket between the folds of his cape.

“That’s either the convoy from Rouen, or we’ve found new trouble,” Porthos murmurs darkly. He squares his shoulders and makes his steed lengthen his strides and move in-between Athos and the strangers. Athos would complain, if it weren’t for d’Artagnan and Aramis, who do just the same. Things being as they are, he merely rolls his eyes and continues on his own course, languid but watchful. There might always be unforeseen danger lurking beneath the trees to their left and right.

“You the Musketeers from Paris?” one of the strangers speaks up once they’re within shouting distance. He is a burly man with a red beard that could host half a dozen squirrels, and somehow manages to look almost regal.

“We are,” Athos agrees and inclines his head in greeting – his stitches be damned.

“Expected to meet you yesterday,” growls the man snidely. Out of the corner of his eye, Athos sees Porthos stiffen. Not so much regal as pompous, then.

“My apologies,” Athos drawls. “We ran into a little trouble on the road. I trust you gentlemen had a pleasant journey?” He encounters a wall of stony countenances, and assumes not everyone is as lucky as he and in the habit of travelling with friends. “Shall we then?”

He produces the letter with the King’s signet the Captain entrusted to him before they set forth on their journey, and exchanges it for a small, heavy chest, bound and sealed. “I trust everything is in order?”

“Of course,” the bearded one says. “But by all means – break the seal and count it.”

Athos does not dignify that outrageous suggestion with a reply. “I wish you a good day then, and safe travels back to Rouen.”

He gets a grunt for his troubles, and then the men are riding off, clearly desirous of leaving them behind as fast as possible.

“Delightful fellows,” Aramis comments and turns his head to look at Athos. “Give d’Artagnan that chest.”

Athos, who knows just as well as Aramis that d’Artagnan is the lightest of them, and his horse therefore the freshest, hesitates.

It would turn the boy into a target.

“I’ll hide it beneath my bedroll,” d’Artagnan says after a slight pause, seems to guess at the reason for Athos’ hesitance. “No one will know I have it.”

Athos relents and watches Aramis help d’Artagnan fix the chest to the back of his saddle. He has trouble focusing on the deft movement of Aramis’ fingers suddenly, and blinks his lashes several times. His horse is moving impatiently beneath him, tossing its dark head, its mane blurring into a black haze before his eyes. Athos takes the reigns into a firmer grasp and sits up straighter. He becomes conscious of a warmth spreading through him that does not feel altogether natural, especially here in the woods where no sunlight reaches the ground, and a fine mist is hovering between the trees, just a few inches above their roots.

His forehead seems to be especially hot, as are the tips of his ears.

Fever, he determines, and sets his jaw. At least his body waited until the tax-money was in their possession to fail him. Now all he has to do is conceal it for as long as he can, and return to Paris as fast as possible.

They are vulnerable enough with him not in fighting condition, and he would hate to be a liability to his friends for longer than strictly necessary.

A little fever won’t kill him; ideally it won’t even result in him falling off his horse.

If his luck holds out, nobody will notice until nightfall, and he will be allowed to preserve his dignity and fight his body’s betrayal in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

Fever, Athos determines after ten minutes on the road back towards Paris, is a horrible affliction only the most vile of criminals should have to endure.

Yesterday’s wind has abated, the air is calm and rather humid in combination with the ever-falling rain, and not even the slightest breath of air cools his heated brow. He feels increasingly hot beneath the brim of his hat, and finds the sweaty wisps of hair hanging into his face ever more irritating.

He is almost blind with the fever clouding his vision, and the rain is washing the landscape into a blur.

Athos does not even dare shake his unruly hair into motion and out of his eyes. For one would it upset his neck wound, and then there’s the pesky possibility that moving his head in such a fashion would make him so dizzy as to result in him falling off his horse.

He starts to feel stupid with the fever dulling his senses, heavy and sluggish, and he is glad for his horse not taking advantage of his weakened state. A different animal might try to throw him, instead of doing anything in its power to keep him in the saddle.

It is to no avail though.

The road passes the farm where they spent the last night, and Porthos pulls up his horse suddenly, leans over to make a grab for Athos’ reigns as well. “That’s as far as you go.”

Athos blinks at him, too exhausted to even speak, and encounters a grim expression. “Thought you could keep it from us, eh? Of all the stubborn fools –“

“I’ll ask Madame for a bed and clean linen,” d’Artagnan speaks up, “I’m sure she’ll comply.”

With that he rides off and leaves Athos to the mercy of his two best friends. Aramis looks ready to shoot him, and Porthos’ fists lie clenched on his steed’s arched neck, gripping the reigns far too tightly.

“I am sorry,” Athos manages. Then he slumps forward. With nothing forcing him to keep up even the slightest resemblance of good health, all his strength leaves him at once. It feels like a weight dropping off his shoulders, but the ground is pulling at his weakened limbs just the same – determined to drag him down.

Porthos utters a startled oath, and one moment later he’s off his horse and saves Athos from falling to the dirty road. He goes down on one knee, cradles Athos against his chest and takes off his gloves to brush the back of his hand over Athos’ forehead.

“He’s burnin’ up!” he proclaims, and then Aramis swears, in Spanish, and Latin, and in French.

Athos hides his face in the folds of Porthos’ shirt and closes his eyes. The shirt is wet from the rain, as is the leather covering Porthos’ chest. It feels like a balm against Athos’ heated skin. “I am sorry.”

“Hush, love, it’s alright – Aramis is just worried, you know how he gets.” Porthos’ voice is a steady rumble, deep and soothing, and Athos feels slightly better just for being close to him. He tries to hold on to Porthos as best he can, but his hands turn out to be useless – fail him just as much as the rest of his body.

Porthos twists his torso so Athos can rest his head on his shoulder, and speaks in low, urgent tones to Aramis – Athos does not understand what is said, and does not really care. His head aches so much that he fears his skull must split from the pain.

And then Porthos moves, picks Athos up in his arms and stands. His movements are fluid and steady, jostle Athos as little as possible, but Athos still loses his hat.

“I’ll bring it – just get him inside,” Aramis urges.

Porthos promptly starts to walk, and Athos, who has a vague memory of the distance between the road and the farmer’s house, as well as the steepness of the little hill it’s standing on, mumbles a vague protest. “I can walk.”

“No, you can’t,” Porthos whispers back.

He sounds soft, suddenly, and warm – no longer angry. That tone of voice brings tears to the corners of Athos’ eyes, and he likes to think that he would be able to keep his emotions under far more rigorous control if he was feeling better.

Porthos makes soothing noises at him and carries him up the hill and towards the open door of the farm-house, where d’Artagnan and Madame are already waiting for them.

“Oh, that poor man,” Madame says after one glance at Athos’ face. “Take him inside and let your friend show you to the back room – there’s a bed in there that hasn’t been used since our Celia’s marriage.”

She then instructs one of the farm-boys to help Aramis with the horses, and bustles off to Athos doesn’t know where. All he is aware of is Porthos’ presence, his warmth and strength.

The back room d’Artagnan leads them to is small and low-ceilinged, its walls barely high enough to allow Porthos to stand upright. But it is also clean, with a rather large window that lets in the light.

D’Artagnan leaves them alone again, and Porthos lowers Athos onto the bed standing against the eastern wall, gentle and careful. Athos closes his eyes, grateful for the unexpected comfort. He feels Porthos hovering above him.

“I’m gonna undress you, alright? Keep still for me.”

Athos mumbles a few words of consent, and Porthos sets to work, pulls of his boots and his trousers, and gets him out of his jacket. Aramis comes into the room just as Porthos is ridding Athos of his shirt, and halts in the open doorway. “Oh.”

“What do you mean – oh? What did you expect?” Porthos growls at him. “Close that door, will you?”

Aramis does as he is told and steps into the room, carrying his supply of bandages and healing salve with him. Athos watches his progress from under half-closed lids, and tries to blink away the drops of sweat clinging to his lashes.

“Where’s the Whelp gone off to?” Porthos asks.

“Madame said she’d supply him with a basin, as well as some cloth and a nightshirt – he should join us any minute now,” Aramis replies. Then he bends over Athos, puts a tender hand on his forehead. “Oh, my dear Athos, I could kick you.”

He sounds just as soft and caring as Porthos did when he carried Athos inside, and Athos finds himself reaching out to him and clasping a weak hand around Aramis’ wrist.

“Don’t let him say he’s sorry again,” Porthos urges. “Makes me feel horrible when he does that.”

So when Athos opens his mouth to speak, Aramis pulls his hand out from Athos’ grasp and puts his fingers to Athos’ lips, gentle but firm. “You heard what he said. Quiet now – we don’t want to make him angry.” He stays in that position for a moment or two, looks down at Athos with a curious expression in his dark eyes. When he does break eye-contact, he immediately starts to loosen Porthos’ bandana from around Athos’ neck, and Athos escapes a panicked noise.

He cannot help it. The fever has him in its grips now, and all he knows is that Porthos was the one who put it on him – should be the one to take it off again.

“Eh – better let me do that,” Porthos says immediately, and Aramis looks up in confusion, just to brave a quick glance into Athos’ eyes immediately afterwards. Athos cannot be sure in his current condition, but he thinks there is a quite a lot of amazed understanding in Aramis’ gaze.

“Yes, yes of course,” Aramis says. “It … belongs to you, after all.”

Athos flushes all over, and he is rather certain it is not from the fever.

Porthos does not say anything; he silently removes the bandana with a few simple movements, and then steps back so Aramis can lean over Athos once more.

When Aramis touches him again, it feels different than it did before. His fingertips feel hot against Athos’ skin, despite Athos’ heightened temperature. Athos’ lashes flutter shut in an attempt to mute the sensation, to at least exclude one sense from the experience.

He is terribly aware of all of Aramis’ movements, despite the state of his wits.

Athos breathes through it as best he can, and bites the inside of his lip to hold in any and all sounds trying to escape him. The air in the room tastes stale after so many days out in the open, and Athos yearns for a breath of wind on his skin. The pain flashing through his head brings fresh tears to the back of his lids, and his skin feels too tight for him, dry and brittle. Despite all that he keeps as still as possible for Aramis.

With the fever ravaging his mind, he fails to comprehend most of the urgently whispered conversation between Aramis and Porthos – does not even try to.

“Is it infected? Does he need a doctor?”

“Ah, I don’t think so. The wound looks fine to me – heals just as it should.”

“Why has he got a fever then?”

“Because he’s exhausted himself beyond reason – look at him! He shouldn’t have continued the mission after losing that much blood!”

“There’s no need to yell at me, Aramis. I didn’t like it either.”

“You surely didn’t do anything to stop him!”

“Eh? And what did you expect me to do? He’s our leader – I gotta respect his decisions.”

“Not the idiotic ones! And what good does you two sharing a bed do, when you can’t even convince him of –“

“Careful now.” The sudden sharpness to Porthos’ words disturbs Athos’ uneasily drifting mind, and an anxious sound escapes his throat. Porthos swears and bends over him, and his hand comes to rest on Athos’ forehead. It is too warm, but Athos still sighs in bliss.

“Sorry, love. We didn’t mean to upset you,” Porthos whispers. “Go ahead and try to sleep. We’ll take care of you.”

D’Artagnan chooses that moment to return into the room. He brings a flat basin with him, full of water, and some cloth, as well as the promised nightshirt draped over his left shoulder. “How is he?”

“His wound is not causing the fever,” Aramis says, sounding contrite as well as tired. “I believe he’s merely overtaxed himself so thoroughly that his body … Well, it just … overheated.” He puts fresh salve on Athos’ neck and dresses the wound once more. “All he needs is rest.”

“And he’s gonna get that now.” There’s a stubborn foundation to Porthos’ quiet voice, rough and solid as a mountain beneath snow, and Athos finds himself relaxing to it, ready to succumb.

“Madame says we can stay here as long as we wish to do so,” d’Artagnan discloses, “and she asks if she should send someone for the Doctor.”

“Not necessary,” Aramis decides. “A stranger would only disturb his peace. We can take care of him by ourselves. Give Porthos that basin – we need to bring the fever down.”

Athos gasps in pleasure as a cold cloth is draped over his burning skin, and blinks his eyes open to look up into Aramis’ face. There are lines of worry marring that otherwise so pleasing countenance, and Athos opens his mouth to apologize once more.

“I know,” Aramis stops him with a whisper, lets his knuckles graze over Athos’ cheek, his thumb a soft pressure just below Athos’ bottom lip. “No need to say it.”

Athos allows himself to surrender to unconsciousness after that.

 

When Athos wakens, he is lying on his side, facing the room. His head is no longer quite so hot, nor does his head-ache threaten to split his skull anymore. Nevertheless, he is reluctant to open his eyes. The harsh light of morning can do all manner of things to a man, and most of them are painful.

But when he blinks his lashes open, the first thing to attack his eye-sight is no errant ray of sunlight, it is the vision of Aramis and Porthos, sitting up against the opposite wall just a few feet away from him.

They are fast-asleep, both of them, wearing nothing but their trousers and shirts. Aramis has curled his body towards Porthos, and tucked his chin into the crook of Porthos’ arm – an arm that is holding him firmly against Porthos’ side.

It is a peaceful picture they present, even more so when Athos knows only too well that both of them are battle-hardened fighters, vicious and relentless in their attacks. There’s certainly no trace of viciousness on their features now.

Porthos’ chin rests atop Aramis’ wild mop of hair, and he smiles in sleep, looks relaxed and content. Aramis’ hands are fisted into Porthos’ shirt lapels, and although his face is mostly concealed from Athos’ view, he looks just as content, just as happy to be where he is.

Athos smiles at the sight before he is even fully awake.

“Your fever broke around dawn,” intrudes d’Artagnan’s voice into this state of utter content. Athos notices him sitting at the foot of the bed, a basin of water standing on a rickety chair right next to him. “They wouldn’t let me do anything until then.” He sounds a bit petulant, but his tone evolves into one of awe when he continues speaking. “I had no idea they would nurse you so well. Madame said she has never seen the like of it – the Doctor couldn’t have done it better.”

Athos manages another weak smile, and d’Artagnan gets up, presents him with a glass of water. Athos looks up at him, all too aware that he is too weak to sit up and drink it under his own power. D’Artagnan does not even let him make the attempt. He kneels down by the bed and puts a steadying hand beneath Athos’ head – holds him up while he puts the glass to his lips.

“It would seem you are quite the nurse-maid as well,” Athos whispers hoarsely when he is lying down again – thoroughly exhausted. He feels as weak as a kitten.

“I had nothing to do besides watching them,” d’Artagnan says in return. “I picked up a few things.”

Athos’ gaze is drawn towards the opposite wall again, where Aramis seems to have moved even closer to Porthos – his head is leaning against Porthos’ chest now, and his left leg threatens to slide over Porthos’ lap. To compensate for this change in position, Porthos has stretched his arm wider across Aramis’ shoulders, circled it around Aramis’ torso and pulled him into a secure embrace – protective and caring even while asleep.

Athos cannot take his eyes off them.

He barely notices how d’Artagnan gets up and opens the window. He does notice the fresh air easing his breathing, though.

“Thank you,” he mumbles in a tired voice, as d’Artagnan sits back down at the foot of the bed.

“You’re welcome,” d’Artagnan replies softly. “You should go back to sleep, you know – they would tell you the same.” He touches Athos’ knee as he says it, gently urging him to do his bidding.

Athos doesn’t find it in himself to quarrel with him, and closes his eyes. D’Artagnan rewards him with a wet cloth, drapes it carefully over Athos’ forehead.

 

The next time Athos wakes up, both Aramis and Porthos are awake as well. Porthos has occupied d’Artagnan’s place at the foot of the bed and is watching Athos very much in the manner of a dog guarding a bone. Athos smiles at him from under half-open lashes.

Porthos immediately smiles back. “Hey, you.”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Aramis appears in Athos’ field of vision. He is negligently dressed with this braces hanging off his hips, and his rosary dangling between the unlaced fabric of his shirt. The glance he casts Athos is rather critical and at odds with his lax appearance. “How are you feeling?”

Athos, very much aware that he might get slapped if he tries to lie, carefully clears his throat. “Rather weak.”

“That was to be expected,” Aramis says pitilessly. “That fever burned through you with all the wrath of Hell.”

Athos looks at him, tilts his head and summons all his remaining strength to accomplish a proper drawl, “If you say so.”

Aramis stares at him for a long moment, pale and tired, and then he goes to his knees by the side of the bed, bows his head and pushes his forehead against Athos’ hip. “God have mercy on my soul, but I _hate_ you.”

Athos, suddenly startlingly aware of how much worry he must have caused him, lifts his hand to Aramis’ head and tangles his fingers in his hair. “I am so sorry, Aramis.”

“You’re both idiots,” is Porthos’ helpful remark. He stretches out his hand to grip Athos’ thigh, and squeezes it gently. “You’re feelin’ better though, yeah?”

“Yes,” Athos says immediately, and lets his fingertips brush over Aramis’ scalp as his palm rests at the back of his head, “much better – just immensely weak.”

“Weak we can handle,” Porthos says gruffly. “It was you all quiet and deathlike that got to us.”

Athos reaches out his free hand to him, and Porthos takes it with quiet implicitness, tangles their fingers and brushes his thumb over Athos’ wrist. It feels like home, in a strange way, gentle and familiar. He watches as Porthos stretches out his other hand as well – puts it on Aramis head, and pets him with quiet affection. The sight makes Athos feel utterly warm inside. It isn’t the hazardous rage of fever, but a steady, nurturing heat; safe and restful.

Aramis heaves a shuddering breath and stays right where he is.

“Where’s d’Artagnan?” Athos asks after a while.

Porthos grins at him. “Outside, caring for the horses. He said he’d rather make himself useful instead of sitting around while Aramis and me smother you like a pair of hens with one chick.”

The corners of Athos’ mouth pull into a soft smile. “He behaved just as abominably as you when I woke up for the first time.” He looks up into Porthos’ eyes, silently pleading for forgiveness. “But I guess he does have a point.”

“Athos,” Aramis says from his position on the floor, “you have to promise me something.”

Athos fixes his gaze on him, and sees Aramis clawing his fingers into the bed sheet, white-knuckled and tense. “What is it?” he asks softly.

Aramis lifts his head and looks at him, and his eyes are too bright, treacherously wet. “You have to allow us to take care of you properly this time – you need to get better before we ride on to Paris. Please.”

Athos can only blink at him, but he makes sure that his hand remains atop Aramis’ head. “But the Captain –“

“We’ll think of somethin’,” Porthos interrupts him. “Aramis is right. You need to heal.”

Athos turns his head to look at him. “But –“

“I’m serious,” Porthos growls. “Enough with this nonsense. I’ll tie you to the bed.”

Aramis’ throat escapes a strangled laugh, and he turns his face into Athos’ palm, briefly closes his eyes. “Ah, I think I will make sure to be present when that happens.”

Athos regards him with a calm tranquillity he perhaps would not feel if the circumstances were different. “And as we all know, your presence has always been of immense importance to my happiness.”

Porthos chuckles and ruffles Aramis’ hair. “You hear that? That was basically an invitation.”

Aramis regards Athos with a light in the depths of his eyes that is not so much disconcerting as it is elating – a heady experience that trickles down Athos’ neck and spine into his groin, and spirals out from there.

Athos bites his tongue and tries to prevent the resulting shock from showing on his face.

“I’m sure it was no such thing,” Aramis says then, softly, and with a gentle current to his voice that is at odds with the fire burning in his eyes. He pulls back, suddenly, from Athos’ hand as well as from Porthos’, and gets up. “I’m also certain that we should get our dear Athos something to eat, before he faints on us again.”

“That’s a marvellous idea,” Porthos says. Athos does not know whether he is oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, but he doubts it. It is very seldom that Porthos remains oblivious to anything that takes place between his two friends. Sometimes he merely prefers to ignore it. “I’ll get him something.”

With that he gets up and leaves, softly closes the door behind him.

It’s very quiet for a moment, then Aramis speaks. “He loves you, you know – ardently.” If Athos expected a trace of humour to accompany those startling words, he does not get it. Aramis is deadly serious it seems. He turns away from the bed and steps over to the window, gazes outside. “I think he always does, when he decides to give his heart … gives all of it, as though he had ample to spare.” Athos regards his profile, and detects something very much like self-loathing hidden in the slant of Aramis’ brows. “Scared me out of my wits when I thought he’d marry his widow, the lovely Alice.” Aramis turns his head and looks at Athos, and there’s a pain in his eyes that seems to find an echo in Athos’ chest. “I thought we’d lost him, then. I’m so glad he’s with you now. He’ll never abandon you.”

Athos opens his mouth, to say he does not know what, and then the door opens once more, and Porthos is back. He carries a little bowl and a wide grin, and the twinkle in his eyes would lift Athos’ spirit, if he weren’t so overwhelmed by what Aramis has said to him.

“Gruel,” Porthos says, grinning ever wider. “Madame made it herself.”

Athos forces himself to look away from Aramis’ burning eyes and bestows his attention on Porthos instead. “She is a most worthy woman.”

“That she is,” Porthos agrees and puts the bowl down to help Athos sit up in bed. “So you have to eat it all, otherwise she’ll be offended and toss you out on your arse.”

Athos feels helpless under his ministrations, and does not resent the experience. “I will give my very best.”

“Good,” Porthos says, audibly pleased, and Athos feels a little flutter of contentment in his gut. That fluttering sensation only intensifies when Porthos sits down beside him, and it becomes obvious that he intends to feed the gruel to Athos.

“I’ll leave you two alone and find out what has become of d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, his light tone of voice tipped with pained urgency. “It won’t do if we misplace him – I have half a mind to blame this delay on him.”

He merely lingers to put on his boots and put his braces to their intended use, and then he leaves the room in a manner suggesting flight from a bear pit.

Porthos huffs. “You’d think he’d be better at expressin’ his feelings, considerin’ he has so many of ‘em.”

With the exhausted state of his wits, Athos needs a moment to process Porthos’ words, and when he does, his heart performs an exited lurch. “You know the cause for his behaviour, then?” he asks, and his tone is eager despite his best efforts.

Porthos looks pensive. “Last night gave me an idea,” he replies in a rough voice, “but I won’t plague you with what I think until I’m sure – you’d just worry yourself sick again if I told you now.” He scrunches his face into a grimace of regret. “Should’ve kept my mouth shut and not said anything at all to you, as a matter of fact …”

Athos’ eyes widen. “Is it so bad, then?”

“No, not bad,” Porthos says, and the grin tugging at his lips manages to calm Athos better than all the words in the world ever could, “just stupid. I’ll try and talk to him, promise. Now go ahead and eat your gruel before it gets cold.”

It speaks volumes of the trust Athos has in Porthos – as well as his exhaustion – that he does not ask further questions, but instead does as he is told. Porthos knows what is going on with Aramis. He will know what to do.

He knew what to do about Athos, after all.

 

The bowl is empty and has been relegated to the wooden floor for at least half an hour, when Athos blinks his eyes open from a light doze. A thought has been nagging at his tranquillity ever since Aramis put it in his mind, and he stares at Porthos for a long moment – Porthos, who has withdrawn to the window and is sitting on the floor, reading the little old book he usually keeps in his saddle bag.

It was a present, Athos remembers, from a grateful noble-woman who was in dire need of Porthos’ chivalry, and received it in abundance. The memory strikes a chord in Athos’ chest, and inspires him to direct a rather abrupt question at Porthos, “You wanted to marry the widow who sponsored you for the competition against the Red Guards?”

Porthos looks up with a puzzled expression. “Where’d that come from all of a sudden?”

“Something Aramis said this morning,” Athos perseveres, despite the hollow feeling in his gut, “Did you really contemplate it?” He wonders how he can sound so calm when the very idea makes him nauseous. He did not notice, back then, what was happening under his very nose, was too involved in d’Artagnan’s affairs to pay attention to his other friends. He doesn’t know what he would have done, had Porthos really left them.

“Did I really contemplate what?” Porthos asks back, “Marriage to a beautiful woman who cared for me? Of course I did. She offered me somethin’ I never thought I could have.”

Athos looks at him and attempts to imagine him in the role of proper husband. The picture assembles easily, with a horde of children for Porthos to adore, his equally adoring wife by his side. He would be such a _good_ father, too, the perfect husband, gentle and loving and protective.

Athos should know. He is the one currently reaping all the benefits of Porthos’ spousal disposition. Strangely enough, the thought presents itself to him without a resulting blush.

“You stayed with us, though,” he says softly, trying to keep his thoughts to himself. “You did not choose that path.”

Porthos nods. “That’s right, I didn’t. Told Aramis why, too. I could never give up soldiering – at least not while you two are still at it.” He lowers his head, stares down at the floor, and he looks sad, all of a sudden. “I left friends of mine to fend for themselves once, thought they’d do just fine on their own – I’ll never do that again.” He shrugs his shoulders. “And Alice didn’t like me bein’ a soldier, didn’t want to spend the rest of her life bein’ afraid I wouldn’t come home to her. So … we parted ways.”

“But you … what she offered you was a … comfortable and safe existence,” Athos says, mystified. He’d always thought that was what Porthos wanted – what he worked so hard for to accomplish: To better himself in the eyes of the world, to show all the nay-sayers that they were wrong, that it was indeed possible for someone of Porthos’ background and upbringing to succeed in the world, to become a gentleman and _earn_ that title.

“Maybe, yeah,” Porthos nods. “But I wouldn’t've been happy. At least not the way I should’ve been, married to a woman like her.” He grins suddenly. “And you’re one to talk – you could've been comfortable and safe in your mansion …” The grin falls off his face as fast as it rose to it as he remembers what happened there. “… Eh, maybe not that comfortable. But you know what I mean.”

Athos does indeed know what he means, so he takes no offence. “My reasons for becoming a Musketeer weren’t half as honourable as yours,” he says mildly, and briefly closes his eyes. “I did it to escape my past – to escape myself.”

“So did I,” Porthos claims. “You think I wanted to stay a street-rat for the rest of my life? No. I wanted somethin’ better for myself – knew I could get it, too. I was selfish, you know. I left Charon and Flea … left him to turn into a traitor, and her to –“ He stops, and his brows draw together in a grimace of sorrow. “… I nearly got her killed.”

“You don’t know that,” Athos says softly, wants nothing more than to dispel these thoughts from Porthos’ mind. “The same thing might have happened had you stayed with them. The only difference would have been that Aramis and I would never have met you – and what then?”

“You’d be dead by now,” Porthos says promptly. “Both of you. No doubt about that.”

Athos directs a grave stare at him, and Porthos stares back just as gravely. Then they start to grin.

“You’re a cock,” Athos tells him, manages to make it sound like an endearment.

“And you should be asleep,” Porthos replies. “Come on, what’s keepin’ you awake? The worry that I might run off with another beautiful widow one day? Because I won’t.”

“Yes,” Athos says softly. “Aramis said quite the same.”

“Did he now?” Porthos lifts both brows, and his eyes widen. “He has more sense than I’d have thought then. Good to know. Now go to sleep and stop worryin’ about anythin’ else he might have said. You fools are never gonna get rid of me and that’s that.”

“Come over here,” Athos urges, suddenly yearning for physical contact, “please, Porthos.”

Porthos is on his feet even before Athos has uttered the word “please”, is beside the bed in two quick strides. He bends over it, and his hand comes up to rest on Athos’ cheek. “What is it, love?”

He has used that word liberally in the last days, and Athos finds that he enjoys it more and more – although it bereaves him of proper speech. “You … I merely wanted …”

Porthos smiles, and kisses him, softly and with closed lips. “You want me to sit down here beside you while you sleep?”

Athos does not say anything in return; Porthos folds his large frame down on the floor beside the bed nevertheless. “Sleep,” he says, his tone somewhere between soft and commanding. “I’m ‘ere.”

 

Athos wakes to a heated debate, carried out in whispers. For a moment he drifts, still half asleep, and then d’Artagnan’s voice carries to his ears. “I will leave the money with you, of course, and I should be safe enough even if I ride by myself – it’s only a day’s journey, after all.”

“Yeah, alright, I get that,” Porthos agrees with him. “The Captain needs to know what happened. But I don’t see why you should be the one goin’.”

Athos blearily blinks his eyes open. He is facing the wall, his back to the room and his friends, and his head feels as though it is filled with feather down.

“You don’t need me here, so I’m the obvious choice,” d’Artagnan says stubbornly.

Athos frowns. His wits are slow to return to him, but he still does not like what he is hearing.

Aramis does not seem to, either – he makes an affronted sound. “I resent that! Of course we need you here: You’re the one who keeps charming Madame into letting us use this room, with your delightfully artless farm boy ways. Never downplay your own strong-points, d’Artagnan – it’s not becoming in a man.”

“I won’t make that mistake again,” d’Artagnan replies, unimpressed. “I assume you’re letting me go then? You’re entrusting this task to me?”

Athos takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back. “I cannot like it,” he says – as decisively as his sleep-addled, fever-weakend mind lets him. “It is far too dangerous for you to ride out by yourself.”

D’Artagnan, instead of taking umbrage at this, looks delighted to see Athos awake, and immediately supplies him with water. It seems that the task has turned to something of an obsession with him.

“Alright,” Aramis says, regarding the proceedings with a smile in his eyes, “to appease our stricken leader, we will turn this into a two-man mission. As d’Artagnan has already pointed out, there’s only one day of riding left – even less so, if we spring our horses a little. We could be back in two days!”

“What do you mean, we?” Porthos asks him with raised brows. “You’re staying here. You’re the doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor, I’m a musketeer,” Aramis corrects him grandly. “And it’s most certainly _you_ he wants as a nurse.”

Athos is not at all fond of being talked about in this fashion – as if he was either not present, or deaf. “None of you are riding to Paris with d’Artagnan,” he says irritably. “If one of us rides, we all do.”

“Fever-patients don’t get a vote,” Aramis declares, while Porthos, who is still sitting on the floor beside the bed, silently takes Athos’ hand into his and squeezes it soothingly. Aramis takes one look at them and then decidedly averts his gaze. “The Captain needs to know where that blasted tax-money is, or he’ll think we have made off with it.”

“He wouldn’t think that!” Porthos growls, and softens with his next words. “He would worry though.”

“There you go!” Aramis exclaims triumphantly. “That’s settled then.”

“Nothing,” Athos says with vehemence and tries to sit up in bed, “is settled.”

Porthos stops him by the simple feat of pressing both their hands to Athos’ chest – thus keeping him pinned to the mattress. “I will go with d’Artagnan,” he says. He manages to look imposing, even while sitting on the floor, and Athos finds himself staring at him in rapt fascination, his own hand still a victim to Porthos’ ruthless imprisonment-tactics. “Athos might fall sick again and need a skilled nurse, and footpads tend to think twice about attackin’ someone who looks like me. This way, everyone should be happy, yeah?”

Athos gazes at him, still somewhat awestruck. “I would not call it happy,” he says eventually.

Porthos smiles at him and leans forward, and d’Artagnan stops his all too obvious intent by clearing his throat. “No kissing, please.”

“You’re a spoil-sport,” Porthos tells him in an accusing tone.

“I’m also the one who took care of your horse this morning,” d’Artagnan reminds him, “while you were in here, probably getting enough kisses to keep you afloat until I’m no longer present to witness them.”

“Not if I’m to ride to Paris with you,” Porthos sulks. He looks enchantingly boyish doing it, too.

“Nobody’s forcing you,” d’Artagnan says promptly. “I am perfectly willing to ride by myself.”

“No,” Athos says, while his gaze is still fixed on Porthos, “please take him with you. It would ease my mind.”

He gets his kiss then, and d’Artagnan makes a scandalized noise. Athos barely heeds him, despite the flush to his cheeks. He still feels too weak to be properly mortified at being kissed in front of witnesses.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Aramis inquires, and Athos and Porthos interrupt their kiss to answer him in concert, “No.”

D’Artagnan snickers delightedly.

 

They embark onto their journey almost immediately, although the sun has already passed its peak. But d’Artagnan claims that it will be a fine night, that it will be possible for them to continue riding by star and moonlight, and Porthos seems to agree with him, so they take their leave.

Athos receives another kiss from Porthos, and a somewhat awkward hug from d’Artagnan, and then they’re gone, and Athos finds himself alone with Aramis.

The resulting silence is uncomfortable, but not for long. Athos has decided that he will no longer tolerate Aramis’ mood changes; instead he will simply fail to observe them until such a time when he feels up to the task of dealing with them.

So he sleeps a little more, since that seems to be what Aramis most desires him to do, and wakes to a gentle touch to his neck, shortly before dusk. The room is almost dark, but far from quiet – with so many farm-animals around, there’s always something claiming attention. Athos is just glad that there do not seem to be any donkeys around.

He blinks his lashes open, knowing Aramis’ touch even before he is fully awake – has experienced it too often to be alarmed. Nevertheless, Aramis immediately withdraws his hand.

“You did not hurt me,” Athos says sleepily, “it is alright – I’m awake now, go ahead.”

So Aramis loosens the bandages around Athos’ neck, and diligently cleans the wound. He inspects it by the light of a candle he must have charmed off Madame, but Athos does not remark on it. Instead he watches the candlelight flicker across Aramis’ features while Aramis’ fingertips glides over his skin, just a little below the wound.

The gesture feels strangely intimate, and Athos swallows, suddenly nervous. “Will it leave a scar?”

“A very unobtrusive one,” Aramis replies, “but yes, it will. I tried my best, but an open field and firelight do not make the best conditions for fine needlework. I am sorry for leaving a mark on you.”

Athos blinks at him, overwhelmingly aware of his own thoughts on the matter. Aramis stares back for a long moment, and eventually clears his throat. “I hope Porthos doesn’t mind?”

Athos automatically reaches up, feeling the sudden need to cover the scar with his hand. Aramis stops him, grasps his wrist and gently stops him from hurting himself. “Please don’t.”

For a heartbeat or two, Athos feels frozen. He is by now so used to Porthos being the one to take care of him that Aramis’ touch throws him entirely off balance; but the moment passes, and he is able to relax – draws comfort from Aramis’ warmth and his familiar presence, and closes his eyes. “I won’t,” he promises in a thin voice.

He does not try to get loose, and Aramis takes a deep breath. “Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.”

“You did not,” Athos half-lies. “It was just the thought of –“

“You belong to each other,” Aramis interrupts him softly. “I understand that.”

He lets go of Athos’ wrist then, and Athos manages to take a hold of his hand, and take it into his own. “We do,” he agrees in a faltering voice, “but I do not think Porthos will mind.” It is more of a hope than a certainty, but Aramis does not need to know that. “He carries quite a number of your marks himself – and he has never been a hypocrite.”

The room falls quiet after that, and Athos can hear the wick of the candle starting to flicker. He takes a deep breath, exhausted but content.

“Athos …”

When Athos opens his eyes, Aramis is very close to him, and the smile hovering about his mouth warms Athos to his core. “What is it?”

“You’re still holding my hand,” Aramis explains with a twitch to his lips. “I cannot dress your wound one-handed.”

Athos flushes, and lets go of him. “I beg your pardon.”

Aramis graces him with one of his most blinding smiles and grazes the back of Athos’ hand with his knuckles, “I don’t mind at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta-reader is going on vacation next week, so I don't really know when the next chapter will be up. So prepare yourselves for a bit of waiting. Maybe. Possibly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta is back - so you get another chapter - hussa! (And I'd never call her a lazy ass ... those were her own words and I wouldn't even THINK about repeating them!)

Next morning’s dawn comes accompanied by all the noises to be expected on a proper farm. First, of course, the rooster crows, joyously and rather energetic. Then the other animals chime in, cows and sheep and even the occasional pig, all demanding to be fed.

Athos lies in bed, a no longer wet cloth draped over his eyes, and contemplates animal slaughter. Once upon a time he was used to these noises – although they were never _quite_ so close to his bedroom – but after years in Paris his hearing has adapted to quite a different kind of clamour, and he is no longer able to fade out the excited mooing of cows next to his window.

He almost wishes he was still exhausted enough to sleep right through the din, but since he is not, there is no point in pretending. He draws the cloth off his face, intent on sharing his displeasure with Aramis.

Except Aramis _is_ still asleep – on his knees beside the bed no less. He is cradling his head in his arms, elbows sticking to the sides, and has pushed his face into the bedding. His tousled hair is obscuring from Athos’ view any features not hidden by the sheets already, and Athos blinks his lashes at him, wondering how he managed to fall asleep like this.

Athos wonders, too, if he should wake him. The position cannot be comfortable for Aramis, after all. On the other hand, Athos does not want to interrupt his rest. Aramis seems to be in need of it.

Aramis brings this internal debate to an end by groaning awake all by himself and then hastily lifting his head – anxiously making sure that no harm has come to Athos while he was asleep. Once he realizes that nothing is amiss, he rests his chin on the back of his right hand, and blinks bleary eyes at Athos. “Well. This was a stupid idea.”

Athos tilts his head, and smirks. “Do you need my help, getting up?”

Aramis glares at him, albeit sleepily. “I never needed help in getting anything up, my dear Athos, and I certainly won’t start today.” An agitated goose makes itself heard outside, and he squints. “What is that infernal noise?”

“The sound of agriculture, early in the morning,” Athos informs him. “Or just hungry animals – whatever you want to call it.”

“Deplorable, whatever it is,” Aramis mumbles, and then groans again as he gets up from his knees. He stretches his arms above his head, still groaning, and then promptly collapses at the foot of the bed, tries to work the crick out of his neck. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday,” Athos says. “My head feels somewhat normal again.”

Aramis leans forward to put this statement to the test, and puts his hand on Athos’ forehead. He nods, visibly pleased. “Thank the Lord. We’d be lost without your wits.” He takes his hand away, and takes a deep breath, goes soft and relaxed for a moment – then he seems to remember his duties, and straightens his shoulders. “Are you hungry?”

Athos, who has watched him in silence, lets his lips quirk into a little grimace. “Not for gruel,” he says dryly.

Aramis grins at him in a disconcertingly fond manner. “You think you can handle proper food already? I’d prefer if you’d try to content yourself with gruel for now, to be quite honest.”

Athos just looks at him for a moment, somewhat thrown by the earnest honesty with which the words were uttered. Then he clears his throat. “You’re the nurse,” he says softly. “I seem to be entirely in your hands.”

Aramis’ grin turns wider. “Afraid I’ll take advantage of you?”

“Not at all,” Athos replies calmly. “You are not the kind of man who takes advantage of anyone. No matter the circumstances.”

Aramis just stares at him, and Athos smiles quietly to himself. “Go and get my gruel then,” he says eventually. “I am sure Madame will have it prepared already, whether I want it or not.”

Aramis gets up and leaves the room, a somewhat dazed expression on his face. Athos does not understand why his remark came so unexpected. As many affairs and lovers as Aramis may have had since they know each other, Athos never got the impression that his partners were unwilling – or even the passive victims of seduction. More often than not, Aramis is the one being seduced. He simply cannot resist temptation, no matter in what disguise it accosts him.

Athos does not blame him for that, per se, he merely wishes Aramis were a little more careful regarding possible consequences. But that is neither here nor there, and Athos refuses to get angry about it again. His blood pressure is not yet up to it.

So he waits for Aramis to return to him, and in the meanwhile takes proper stock of his surroundings. The small window looking out onto the yard is closed, but clean enough to allow the morning sun in. It throws its light over the little room, over the one rickety chair standing desolately beside the bed, and a chest in the corner by the door. That is it, there is nothing more to look at.

Athos must own that he feels slightly bored already. His mind is clear enough now – it’s just his body that cannot support him – and another day tied to the bed will surely drive him out of his mind with boredom.

Aramis returns a few minutes after Athos has come to that disheartening conclusion. He carries with him the promised bowl of gruel, but also a boiled egg and some soft bread.

“Madame had pity on you,” he explains as he puts the food down on the chair to help Athos sit up. “She said a man of your size was not made to subsist of mush alone.” His eyes start twinkling. “I wonder what she says about Porthos.”

Athos, sitting up against the wall with a cushion at his back, lifts his left brow. “That is not something I would contemplate in depth, if I were you.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Aramis complains and hands Athos the bowl. “You’re the one in possession of all the facts now, after all – contemplation is all that remains to me.”

Athos freezes, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Are you saying that you –“

“No,” Aramis interrupts him hastily. “I’m not. Eat your gruel.”

It is certainly not news to Athos that Aramis takes a lively interest in his and Porthos’ relationship, but now he cannot rid his mind of the idea that Aramis might _imagine_ them sometimes: imagine how they look together in bed, what they do to each other … what Porthos does to him.

Athos flushes, remembers the spoon still suspended in mid-air, and mechanically starts to eat. Aramis putters around the room for a few minutes, doing God-knows-what, then sits himself down quietly at the foot of the bed.

“Porthos hasn’t told me anything, you know,” he finally says, staring down at his hands, laying folded in his lap. “He never says a word.”

Athos puts his spoon down. “Are you trying to reassure me?”

“I’m telling you how it is,” Aramis says, shrugging his shoulders. If he is trying to look unaffected, he is rather off the mark.

Athos regards him pensively. “I know,” he says at length. “I know that I can trust him.”

Aramis nods, as if that was a matter of course, and bites his lip. Then he looks up, an expression of shy fondness on his face; it is so unlike anything Athos has ever seen him adopt that it bereaves him of all speech.

“He does make you excessively happy, doesn’t he?” Aramis says, sounding soft, and awed – almost child-like. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.” He looks down at his lap again. “It becomes you.”

Athos stares at him. This is not normally what they do, Aramis and him. They are wont to show their affection by squabbling, and teasing, and pointing out each others flaws. Aramis must deem him pretty sick still, to treat him with such overwhelming care.

It hurts almost, the slow burn of affection spreading inside Athos’ veins, the way the flame travels through his whole body only to light up his chest and make him ache for physical contact.

“Come here,” he says, his voice blessedly smooth. He pats the empty spot next to him on the mattress. “There is enough food for the both of us, I believe.”

It speaks volumes for the misconceptions he harbours about the state of Athos’ health that Aramis does not make a fuss, but gets up immediately. He sits down by Athos’ side on the small bed, close enough that their shoulders are touching, and takes the bowl from him. “I always rather liked gruel,” he says brightly.

Athos raises his brow at him, “You would.”

 

“There,” Aramis says, two hours later, “I hope you’re happy now.”

The bench he has deposited Athos on is low and broad and comfortable, stands with its back to the house, and overlooks the fields towards the north. The sun is still climbing upwards in the sky, and dew still glistens in the grass.

“I am,” Athos assures him.

Aramis promptly collapses by his side. “I have no idea how Porthos does it – carrying people around is terribly exhausting.” He fiddles with the blanket spread over Athos’ shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”

“Will you stop mothering me?” Athos asks him, far less biting than he intents to be. “You are worse than Porthos.”

“Ah, but I don’t love you the way he does,” Aramis chirps.

“Thank God for that,” Athos bites back.

They fall quiet.

Athos is still somewhat exhausted from getting dressed – with Aramis’ outwardly uncooperative but in fact very capable assistance – and for a while he is content to breathe the fresh autumn air and look out over the fields, counting sheep in the distance. He had always enjoyed living in the country, until the memory of her in that setting gave him a distaste for it.

At his side, Aramis starts to fidget. Athos sighs. “What.”

“ _Are_ you warm enough?” Aramis presses him in a worried voice, and Athos turns his head, barely refrains from taking his hand. Being with Porthos has surely increased his need for physical contact.

“I am.”

“I’m just afraid that Porthos might kill me when he returns and does not find you in prime condition,” Aramis explains airily.

As some sort of compromise with himself, Athos pats his hand. “I know.”

They fall quiet once more.

“What do we do now?” Aramis asks, after a while.

Athos looks up to the heavens with a silent plea for patience. “Do you expect me to entertain you?”

“Of course not,” Aramis scoffs. “I gave up that hope years ago. But I must admit I’m rather –“

“Bored?” Athos interrupts him. “I do not blame you. You have my blessing to leave me here and go in search of entertainment. Just do me a favour and stay away from the milk-maid.”

Athos delivers this speech without the slightest hitch, and at the end of it, Aramis looks at him as though he had proposed something as sinister as murder by poison.

“I am certainly not going to leave you,” Aramis hisses. “You cannot _walk_ by yourself.”

“We do not know that – you did not allow me to try,” Athos drawls. “I might yet surprise us all.”

“By falling headfirst into a ditch, yes!” Aramis grouses. “If you want me gone, you can just say so!”

“I am not the one saying he is bored,” Athos reminds him gently, detecting a faint note of hurt in Aramis’ voice. “I’d much rather you stay with me, to be honest.”

Aramis immediately turns docile. “I’ll stay then.”

The quiet lasts almost ten minutes, this time.

“Seriously, what do we do?” Aramis demands.

Athos looks up at the sky again, feeling somewhat betrayed. “I could recite you some poetry,” he suggests with an undertone of solid irony, and silently regards the progress of an old sheep-dog towards them, and watches it plop down at their feet, grunting contently.

“I like poetry,” Aramis teases, and bends down to scratch the animal behind its floppy ears. “Go ahead then.”

Athos, feeling vindictive, picks the most tedious of poems his teachers beat into him over the years, and starts to recite it.

Madame finds them half an hour later. Aramis is sitting on the ground by then, vigorously scratching the dog’s belly, lying on its back between his spread legs and panting delightedly. Athos lifts his head when he notices her approach, and makes to get up to greet her. Aramis puts a hand on his thigh without looking, and keeps him in place while getting up himself to bow to her. “Madame.”

She drops them a brief curtsy. “Messieurs.” Then she notices the dog, “Has that old rascal been bothering you?”

“Not at all,” Athos says handsomely. “I believe he found a kindred spirit in Aramis.”

She smiles. “Very well then.” Her face turns serious. “Are you feeling more the thing, Monsieur? Do you need us to do anything to hasten your recovery?”

Athos executes a slight bow towards her, still safely seated on the bench. “Nothing at all, Madame, I thank you. We have imposed on your kindness too much already. Besides,” he casts a warm glance at Aramis, “my friends are doing all that I could ever wish for.”

When she smiles this time, it comes accompanied by a very motherly expression. “That they do, Monsieur. You let me know if you need anything, yes? There’s no need to be shy about it.”

Athos thanks her once more, and she leaves them alone again, placid and content. Aramis watches her retreating form with something like fascinated admiration. “I wonder how it’s like – always being so _calm_ about everything. Nothing seems to ruffle her – even when we brought you here, near dead with fever, she simply set to work, supplied us with everything we needed, and then stayed out of our business.”

Athos tilts his head, regards him intently. Aramis is standing a few feet away from him, with his profile against he distant horizon, and the way he carries himself reminds Athos of an old painting he saw when he was still a boy. It displayed some sort of romantic figure, a knight, or hunter of dragons perhaps. He seems to be entirely out of Athos’ reach all of a sudden – a feeling Athos does not cherish at all. “Her husband is a very lucky man,” he says quietly.

Aramis turns then, and grins at him, entirely himself again – accessible and forthcoming as ever. “You’re one to talk!”

With that he sits back down on the ground, and receives the dog’s happy affection with all signs of pleasure. Athos regards him pensively for a long moment, then he nods. “I guess I am.”

Aramis looks up at him, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I’ll tell Porthos you said that.”

Athos refuses to blush. Aramis’ teasing is nothing new to him, nor is the notion that he regards Athos in the light of a tragic heroine where his relationship with Porthos is concerned. It does not matter. What matters is that Athos is indeed beholden to Porthos for everything he did for him … and that he misses him, although it has not been a day yet since he saw him last.

He feels steadier when Porthos is around, grounded and more real, somehow. Aramis’ presence has a different effect on him, more that of a reviving tonic than the soothing balm Porthos represents to overtaxed nerves. Athos honestly cannot say which he enjoys more, and promptly feels guilty about that.

Surely, he should prefer Porthos’ presence to all else.

“You tell him whatever you want,” he says smoothly. “As will I.”

Aramis grins at him again, and Athos is so relieved, so _pleased_ by Aramis’ ongoing good humour that he reaches out his hand to him and tousles his hair – very much in the same manner that Aramis is petting the dog at his feet.

Aramis lets him, is the thing. He closes his eyes and smiles, leans into the touch and relaxes. Athos feels warm, all of a sudden, too fond to put it into words, but he does not withdraw his hand – not even when Aramis rests his head against Athos’ knee and remains in that position while Athos recites him another tedious poem.

 

Athos spends a pleasant day with Aramis. He won’t call it surprisingly pleasant, because he would not be friends with Aramis if spending time with him wasn’t generally pleasing. It is just so very … harmonious. They do not get into a fight, they do not even get into one of their biting discussions.

When Athos refuses to recite any more poetry for Aramis, Aramis goes to pester Madame for a book which he then proceeds to _read to Athos_. It turns out to be a rather unsavoury romance novel; Athos has no idea how a respectable farmer’s wife could possibly have come by it.

Naturally, Aramis relishes every sentence. He does not have Porthos’ natural talent for storytelling, but what he does have is enthusiasm in abundance. He only stops reading for a repast of gruel and bacon, consumed out in the open, and then once more to transfer Athos back into the house and into bed when the sky starts to hint at rain late in the afternoon.

Athos sits by his side, at first silently fuming that he was not allowed to undress himself, but then he decides to shrug that off. His friends have always been overprotective; it will pass as soon as he is feeling better and can threaten them with bodily harm should they continue to annoy him.

With that calming thought firmly planted in his mind, he falls asleep at Aramis’ shoulder.

It is dark – outside and in the room – when he wakes up again: to Aramis trying as gently as possible to lower him into a proper sleeping position. Aramis stills when he realizes that Athos is awake, remains bent over him, and his eyes glint in the darkness. “Sorry.”

“It is alright,” Athos murmurs sleepily, and helps him along, moves as far towards the wall as possible. “Come here.”

“Ah, no,” Aramis whispers, “I fear the bed is rather too small for the two of us.”

“You are not sleeping on the floor again,” Athos says with as much determination as he can muster. “Either you lie down beside me in the bed, or I’ll sleep on the floor with you.”

Athos’ Spanish is too patchy for him to understand every detail of the stricture Aramis lets loose in answer to this. It is still good enough for him to comprehend that he was apparently sent down from the Heavens by God to cause Aramis nothing but trouble, though.

“I appreciate your feelings on the matter,” he drawls. “Now get in.”

Aramis heaves an exasperated sigh, but he yields. Athos watches him undress in the soft light the moon casts into the room, and blushes once he realizes that he is staring. Despite that, he promptly lifts the blanket for Aramis to crawl under once he is wearing nothing but his undergarments.

“Don’t confuse me with Porthos when we’re asleep,” Aramis mutters once they’re lying side by side. “I’m sure he wouldn’t cherish the outcome.”

“You need have no fear in regards to that,” Athos replies and rolls onto his side to give them both more room, “he runs much hotter than you.”

Aramis escapes a strangled laugh in the dark, and he turns as well, so they’re lying face to face. “Does he now?”

“Much hotter,” Athos says with conviction. “Now be quiet and sleep.”

Strangely enough, Aramis does as he is told.

 

Next morning’s sunrise is particularly fine. Athos can see glimpses of it from the bed, can smell the crisp air of morning coming in through the open window. He has been awake for about half an hour when the rooster starts to crow.

He is lying on his back, warm and comfortable, feeling well enough to contemplate getting up and taking a proper look at the sky.

He can’t, though. Aramis is keeping him pinned to the bed with at least half his body, has rested his head on Athos’ chest.

Athos wonders whether Aramis always clings to his bed mates in such a manner, whether he always looks so content while asleep – his face carefree and surprisingly young. Athos wonders too, why he has never noticed it before. It is certainly not the first time he woke up next to Aramis – they have slept close to each other often enough, when camping out in the open.

He is surprisingly comfortable with their current closeness, does not object to Aramis’ warm weight pinning him to the bed, nor to the way Aramis’ arms wrap around his torso. It feels familiar, and safe, and if he wishes Porthos were present to add to his pleasure, it is nobody’s business but his own.

He absent-mindedly brushes a strand of hair off Aramis’ face and behind his ear, and wonders for how much longer his friend will keep him prisoner like this.

Aramis smiles, when Athos touches his face, sighs contentedly, and blinks awake. The smile stays with him for a few seconds longer, but then it freezes, and Aramis lifts his head with all signs of discomfort. “I beg your pardon!”

He pushes himself up on hands and knees and moves to scramble away. Athos makes a grab for his shoulder, keeps him still, keeps him close. “Will you calm down? I was the one who told you to come to bed last night. Do you take me for a blushing maiden?”

A grin lifts the corners of Aramis’ mouth. “Your beard’s becoming too bushy for a blushing maiden, my dear Athos.” He lifts his hand to tug on it, very gently. “I should ask Madame for a pair of scissors.”

Athos refrains from rolling his eyes at him. “Whatever pleases you.”

Aramis’ gaze turns eager. “You’d let me?”

“It would not be the first time,” Athos shrugs. “But wait until after breakfast, please.”

Aramis nods and looks towards the window, still suspended on hands and knees above Athos. “It’s very early, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Athos confirms. Aramis turns his head back towards him, looks down at him in a speculative manner, bites his lip. “You may lie back down,” Athos says quietly.

Aramis does so very gingerly. For a moment nothing but the busy morning activities of farm life are audible in the little room. Athos feels inclined to brush his fingers through Aramis’ hair, and doesn’t.

“I plan on taking a walk after breakfast,” he informs him instead. Aramis raises one eloquent eyebrow, and does not say anything. Athos smiles at himself, rather satisfied, and closes his eyes. Maybe he will manage to fall asleep again.

“Porthos will hurt me if I let you come to harm under my watch,” Aramis mumbles at length, just as Athos is on the brink of sleep.

He opens one displeased eye to glance at Aramis. “Porthos would never hurt you, and you know that.”

“For you he might.”

“No.”

“Ah, but he _loves_ you, my dear Athos.”

Athos, fed up with this nonsense, rolls over to push Aramis on his back, and glares down at him. “Will you stop?” Aramis lies beneath him, wide-eyed and surprised, and makes no attempt to free his wrists from Athos’ grasp. “Porthos loves you just as much as he loves me, and he will always do so, you understand?” Athos hisses at him. “He does not prefer me over you – I am merely the one he is bedding, and if he had not felt sorry for me that one night, it would never have happened!”

“Athos …” Aramis licks his lips, and his eyes flicker to the side. Then he braces himself and takes on that blazing glare levelled at him, “Porthos has never, not once since he’s known you, been sorry for you. He’s not with you out of pity, and you should _know_ that.”

Athos abruptly lets go of him and sits up on his knees, pushes the hair out of his face.

“He admires you too much to ever feel sorry for you,” Aramis says quietly.

“Well, he shouldn’t,” Athos bites back, stares down at his hands, laying clenched to fists on his thighs.

“Yes, he should,” Aramis says, and sits up as well. “He did well in placing his affections on you. Don’t you dare belittle his feelings!”

Athos remembers that tone of voice – remembers the hurt disbelieve hitting him in the gut as if Aramis had attacked him with his fists. At least Aramis is not asking him whether he doesn’t care about Porthos this time; but it hurts, nevertheless. “I am not belittling his feelings,” Athos says, and the passion in his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. He confronts Aramis’ stare, begging him to understand. “I would never do that! I cherish him too much for that!”

For a heartbeat or two, Aramis looks torn, somewhere between pain and yearning; then his features smooth over, and he smiles, gentle and warm. “Good. He doesn’t deserve any less.”

Athos feels immensely tired, suddenly, but the feeling does come accompanied by relief. “In that we agree wholeheartedly.”

Aramis reaches out to him, then, puts his hand over Athos’ right, still laying clenched on his thigh. “We quarrel too often,” he says with a touch of regret. “I shouldn’t have provoked you – at least not while you’re still ill.”

“And deprive me of all normalcy?” Athos drawls. “You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

Aramis’ hand tenses on his. “Athos …”

Athos watches the pain return into his eyes, and he reaches out with his free hand – offers Aramis the kind of comfort he has received so abundantly from Porthos. “It is alright,” he murmurs. “We will always be alright – you know that, do you not?”

Aramis lets out a pained noise and closes his eyes, leans into the touch with his whole body. Knowing too well that he would only push him away with another question of what is wrong, Athos keeps his mouth firmly shut. Now is not the moment for questions.

So he just … touches Aramis, keeps his hand on Aramis shoulder, a warm reminder of their bond. They remain like this for a long moment.

Then the mooing of a startled cow intrudes into the room, followed by vociferous swearing by one of the farm hands.

Athos feels Aramis’ chuckle in the tremble of his shoulder, and they part, both of them with a hesitant smile on their lips.

“Shall I get breakfast?” Aramis asks, and Athos’ fingers itch to brush an errant strand of hair behind Aramis’ ear, but he manages to keep his hands to himself.

“Yes please,” he says softly.

 

Despite Athos’ plans, they spend the morning indoors, for the sky is cloudy, and a sharp wind has picked up and is whipping across the fields. Aramis does not need to tell Athos that he’d prefer it if he doesn’t expose himself to such weather.

To make up for the cancelled walk, Aramis carries a big basin into the little room, followed by a number of buckets filled to the brim with heated water. Athos does not try to stop him; because for one, Aramis will not be stopped when he is in such a mood as this … and then there’s the fact that Athos longs for a proper wash.

Getting clean takes up most of the morning after so many days in the saddle involving blood and dirt – and Athos barely being able to move without Aramis’ intervening and taking the cloth from him (terribly awkward, but they manage). Once Athos has had a light luncheon, the weather has calmed, and Aramis allows him outdoors.

He takes a pair of scissors with him, sits Athos down on the bench they spent the previous day on, and goes to work. He does not stop at Athos’ beard, but instead insists on cutting Athos’ hair as well. “It falls into your eyes too much,” he reasons, “it’s an annoyance!”

“You are an annoyance,” Athos says without any heat in his voice, closes his eyes, and keeps still. He is very aware of Aramis standing above him. Nevertheless, he tilts his head back, allows Aramis to wield the scissors as closely to his neck as he wishes – would do so even if it weren’t covered in protective bandages.

Athos would never admit to enjoying the way Aramis’ fingers drag through his hair – at least not out loud. Aramis is always very tender when he does work such as this, when his concentration narrows down on the tool he is wielding – be it a needle or a pair of scissors – and the friend receiving his attention.

Athos finds that he would not want anyone else to touch him in this manner – neither Porthos nor d’Artagnan have the talent for it.

Once Aramis is satisfied, he takes the scissors back inside. Athos waits for him in the yard, tests how well his legs carry him without anyone to lean on. Walking back and forth a few times convinces him that he may not be back to full health yet, but at least won’t keel over in a sharp breeze. It feels good, allowing his blood to quicken a little, feeling a healthy warmth spread out into his hands and feet.

“You look like a proper gentleman again,” Aramis informs him with a satisfied air when he comes back outside. “Maybe I missed my calling.”

Athos lifts a sarcastic brow. “Because you are good with your hands? We knew that already.” He turns towards the road, and casts a longing gaze towards the south, while Aramis is making somewhat inarticulate noises behind him. “I think I will take my walk now.”

He takes a few languid steps, and levels a glance above his shoulder when Aramis does not immediately follow him. “Are you coming?”

His words launch Aramis into motion, and he nods, links his arm with Athos’ as soon as he is close enough. “Where do you want to go?”

“South,” Athos says, and starts the descent down the little hill the farmhouse is standing on. Aramis is a warm, steadying fixture at his side – at first even a silent one. As soon as they have reached the bottom of the hill, he draws Athos a little closer to him, and clears his throat, his eyes on the path in front of them, “You think they will return to us so soon already?”

It does not surprise Athos that Aramis knows his mind so well, what surprises him is that Aramis can ask such a ridiculous question. “You doubt it?”

Aramis smiles brightly. “D’Artagnan isn’t one to rush his horse – as much as he rushes everything else.”

Athos inclines his head in agreement, and frowns. He had somewhat depended on Porthos being back in a few hours at the most – gotten used to the idea. Next to him, Aramis clears his throat once more, “You miss him already?”

Athos scoffs. “Please do not be ridiculous.”

Aramis rolls his eyes at him. “What’s ridiculous is you trying to dupe me.”

“I am not trying anything,” Athos informs him with a fair amount of dignity. “All I am saying is that d’Artagnan and Porthos have not been gone long enough for me to miss them.”

“I will tell the Rookie that you include him in your fairy tales,” Aramis discloses. “I’m certain he’ll be delighted.”

“Oh, do shut up.”

“Only once you admit to me that you miss him.”

“Who – d’Artagnan?”

“By God, you’re irritating.”

“You should know best.”

“Yes, I’ve known you long enough, haven’t I?”

Athos smiles gently at him, and nods. “Indeed.”

For a heartbeat or two, Aramis looks taken aback, but then he returns the smile, warm and visibly amused. “And yet you still manage to surprise me.”

There is a certain graveness to his words, an undercurrent of sincerity that elicits a peculiar echo in Athos’ chest. He opens his mouth, intent on asking Aramis what he means – and then the clatter of hooves becomes audible in the distance.

Aramis is immediately alert. “If it’s someone we don’t know, I’m hiding you in the ditch! I’m not taking any chances with strangers today.”

A few moments later two riders come around a southward bend in the road, and if Athos’ didn’t recognize the horses, he could not be mistaken about Porthos’ hat, even as far away as he and d’Artagnan still are.

It is completely unreasonable how his heartbeat quickens in his chest at the sight.

“Ah, you’re in luck,” Aramis says brightly. “Come on then – let’s show him how much better you look thanks to my handiwork.” With that he gently tugs Athos forward, and slowly continues their walk down the street, arm in arm with Athos and all too mindful of Athos’ weakened state.

As soon as he recognizes them, Porthos lifts his arm in greeting, and Aramis rises almost to his tiptoes as he’s waving back with his free arm, full of happy enthusiasm.

“I am sure he has already seen you,” Athos drawls, but his mouth refuses to obey him, and its corners pull upward – too delighted to stay sober.

“Your acting has suffered recently,” Aramis informs him, and then Porthos is there, has rushed his steed down the road towards them, and glides off the sweating animal’s back with far more haste than is his wont.

Athos lets go of Aramis and takes another step by himself, and a heartbeat later he is in Porthos’ arms, pressed to his chest, and he feels _weak_ suddenly, breathless and helpless in a way that leaves his whole body tingling with pleasure.

“You’re up!” Porthos rumbles at his ear – and then he kisses him, presses his mouth to Athos’ and licks over his bottom lip. Athos’ lashes flutter shut and he gives himself up to the kiss, puts his arms around Porthos’ neck and holds on to him as best he can. He takes vague note of how d’Artagnan advances and gets off his horse, how he greets Aramis and exchanges a few friendly words with him. The focus of his attention is on Porthos, though, and on the kiss they’re sharing.

When Porthos pulls back, Athos opens his eyes to look at him, and is rewarded with a blinding smile. Porthos’ hands are on his cheeks, his thumbs brushing slowly back and forth. “You look good,” he murmurs, and rubs a strand of hair between his fingers. “Aramis cut your hair?”

“He did,” Athos confirms, and they both look over to where Aramis is standing next to d’Artagnan, a few feet apart from them. “He took good care of me,” Athos adds.

He is aware that Aramis looks a little lost yet again, that his eyes seem distant, all of a sudden, as if he does not know what to do with himself. There can be no question as to why this time, and Athos comes willingly when Porthos pulls him over to where Aramis is standing.

“He did, eh?” Porthos reaches out his hand and makes a grab for Aramis’ shoulder – pulls him into a crushing embrace.

Athos smiles at d’Artagnan. “I am glad you are back.”

The boy grins at him. “So am I.” They hug as well, and Athos revels in the sensation of them all being reunited again. Maybe he should start to worry about the intensity which with he craves his companions’ presence.

“Porthos was unbearable the whole time,” d’Artagnan confides to him in a very audible whisper. “His poor horse barely knew what to do with the ill-tempered brute on its back.”

“Eh, shut up,” Porthos grunts good-naturedly, pulls Athos back towards him with one arm, while the other is still draped around Aramis. “Can’t blame me for worryin’.”

“He growled at the Captain,” d’Artagnan says happily. “It was great.”

Porthos growls yet again, and hugs Athos as well as Aramis to his chest, as if attempting to shield himself from d’Artagnan’s teasing.

It is not the first time that the three of them share one embrace, but Athos does not think that he was ever before so aware of how Aramis’ and Porthos’ bodies feel close to his – of how they fit; nor was he aware of the way Aramis just breathes out in pleasure and keeps himself perfectly still.

Athos automatically does the same, and closes his eyes, feeling more at home than he has in a long while.


	6. Chapter 6

Athos allows his friends to coddle him for one more day before he insists on returning to Paris. He is asleep for most of that day, gathering his strength and his wits, guarded in turn by Aramis, and Porthos, and d’Artagnan – never alone.

The ride itself is uneventful, undertaken in short stages, with Aramis riding beside Athos and watching him like a hawk would watch its newly fletched chick. Athos bears it with as much patience as he can muster. Now that he is feeling better, he can no longer treat Aramis’ behaviour as if it was normal – something he deserves – regardless whether he still needs it or not.

Thankfully, Porthos has wrapped his bandana around Athos’ neck once more to protect it from the elements, and it holds Athos together in a strange way that he cannot explain – gives him strength and floods him with a disproportionate warmth, allows him to endure Aramis’ affectionate concern in silence, despite his exhaustion. Athos would never admit it out loud, but riding, even if only for one day, is a rather strenuous experience after enduring blood loss and running a fever high enough to inspire Aramis to comparisons with Hell Fire.

They reach Paris by nightfall, take the chest of tax-money from Rouen to the garrison and report to the Captain. He seems glad to see Athos returned, and eyes the cloth around his neck with sympathy. “I was informed that I may count myself lucky to see you again,” he says with a glance towards Porthos, who frowns in discomposure and lifts his chin, squares his shoulders. “I was also told that only a _gaoler_ entirely devoid of human compassion could expect you to be back before the week was out – I infer that I was misled?”

Athos’ lip twitches appreciatively, but he manages to present a sober face to his Captain. “I am sturdier than I look.”

Treville smiles at him. “That you are; and your men are certainly devoted to you, even if their _dedication_ ,” he stops to glower at Porthos, who has fixed his gaze on a spot somewhere high on the left of the wall behind the Captain’s head, and seems to be entirely unaware of what is being said, “is somewhat misguided at times.”

“It will not happen again,” Athos fibs, and then they are free to go, the Captain informing Athos that he is on leave for a week and would be wise not to show his face at the garrison for at least three days.

Athos only has to look at Porthos once they are outside, and Porthos shrugs, visibly embarrassed. “He was badgerin’ me about that stupid money. I lost my temper.”

“Do not do it again,” Athos says mildly as he steps down into the yard.

Behind them, d’Artagnan lets out a soft sound of amusement. “Why would you ask that of him? It’s hardly fair.”

Athos lifts his brow to look at him, and the boy merely grins. “I thought it was sweet how he growled at the Captain. And the Captain obviously thought so too, or he wouldn’t have let it pass the way he did.”

“Sweet?” Porthos mutters, a playful light in his eyes. “I’ll give you sweet.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” d’Artagnan says, “at least not to me. I’m going home.” He briefly touches Athos’ arm, waves to the other two, and then he is gone.

Aramis lets out a little sigh and looks up at the dark sky. “There were more stars out in the country. I think I’m going to miss that.” He adjusts his hat. “I’ll accompany you to Porthos’ lodgings. I want to change the bandages and get a proper look at the stitches.”

So they set off in that direction, and stay as close to each other as possible while navigating the streets. Athos is strangely glad to be back in Paris, despite its dirt and its noise, and so many people roaming the alleys who would sooner belong behind bars. It is his home now, he realises – although it would be nothing of the sort without the two men currently at his side.

They take off their hats once they are inside Porthos’ rooms, and Porthos hands his to Athos to put it away while he lights a fire in the hearth. Once he is done, he strips off his uniform jacket, and then helps Athos do the same since the movement still results in uncomfortable tugging at Athos’ neck-wound.

“Sit on the bed,” Aramis advises Athos in a brisk voice, busy with a bowl of water and a flask of something that smells very strongly of disinfectant alcohol.

“Where did you get that?” Athos asks him in mild surprise.

Aramis smiles. “From the Captain, of course.” He moves to stand in front of Athos, makes to lean down – and frowns. “Ah, Porthos, would you be so kind -?” He gestures towards the bandana still swathed around Athos’ neck, and Athos remembers, suddenly: how Aramis tried to take it off the first time – and how Athos reacted to it.

He clears his throat. “You may do it. I am not half out of my mind with fever now.”

For a moment, all Aramis does is stare at him, but then he swallows, and nods. “As you wish.” He throws a nervous glance towards Porthos, who is busy with stocking the fire, and does not seem to pay them any attention though; so Aramis lifts his hands and carefully undoes the knot keeping the cloth around Athos’ neck.

Athos is immensely aware of how close Aramis is to him, of how their breathing has synchronized, a little too fast and too deep; and when the knot is open, and Aramis takes the bandana away, it results in such a strong surge of heat all the way down Athos’ spine that he has to bite his lip to not let out any sound.

He feels oversensitive, suddenly; his pulse quickens alarmingly, and he cannot stop staring at Aramis, who looks oddly flushed as well. Aramis probably knows, Athos realizes with a flash of shame; he always knows. So he averts his gaze and stares at nothing for a moment before he closes his eyes, tries to get his bearing. He almost fails to believe that his body reacts to Aramis’ simple touches this way, and wishes he could be surprised.

He isn’t though.

It has been too long since he has last been with Porthos, since he allowed himself the weakness to succumb and bow to a stronger will, and Athos feels it keenly. He can only pray that Aramis will keep his tongue between his teeth for once in his life, and refrain from pointing out the obvious – refrain from teasing him.

Athos does not know what he would do should Aramis remark on what is going on.

He opens his eyes to look at Porthos: to see what he is doing, and try to calm down by reminding himself of his presence. But Porthos has moved outside his field of vision, and Athos’ hands almost shake with sudden panic: a mixture of helpless arousal and nausea deep in his gut. Aramis’ fingers are stroking over his bandages now, loosen and untangle them, and he is so gentle that it makes Athos lick his lips and take a deep breath.

Then the bandages are off as well, and Aramis starts to clean the wound. The sharp smell of disinfectant is heavy in the air, and the way it burns on Athos’ skin is nearly too much. His throat escapes a tiny noise, and suddenly Porthos is there, on his knees on the bed, directly behind him. He puts his hands on Athos’ shoulders and pulls him against his chest. “’S alright, love, relax – we got you.”

Athos cannot but lean back against him, relief spreading through him like the first rays of morning sun dispel the dark of night. He closes his eyes again, still trapped somewhere between pain and arousal, but trusting in Porthos to keep him safe. He may not want Aramis to see him like this, but that cannot be helped now.

Aramis keeps quiet, whatever he might be noticing about Athos’ current state, and after a while the sharp pain in Athos’ neck abates, and leaves only a mild throbbing behind, pulsing through Athos in tandem with his heartbeat.

“The wound looks good,” Aramis says very softly. “It’s healing nicely – the scar will be nearly invisible.”

Athos tilts his head so Aramis can put healing salve on the cut, and tries to concentrate on Porthos’ chest rising and falling at his back instead of the tingling warmth of Aramis’ fingertips.

The logs crackle in the fire, break apart in the heat of the hearth, and for a moment Athos wonders how such a little fire can burn so hot, until Aramis’ fingers on his neck draw him back into himself, and he can concentrate on nothing but his rising arousal. 

The conflicting impulses his body is receiving make him reel with confusion, and he realizes that he needs to be touched, and soon, that Porthos needs to remind him how it feels to be held down, a strong hand in his hair, controlling his movements.

Athos licks his lips again, and when he opens his eyes, Aramis is gazing at him in silent wonder, his own eyes dark and overwhelmed. “Do you want Porthos to dress your wound?” he asks, and his voice is so scratchy as to be barely recognizable.

Athos can only blink at him, sluggish and helpless with the need for submission spreading inside him, and does not reply.

“You do it,” Porthos answers for him. “You’re better at it than I am.” He spreads his knees wider so Athos can rest more comfortably between them, and draws Athos closer to his body. “That’s alright, isn’t it, love?”

Athos manages a quiet Yes.

Aramis hands are somewhat unsteady as he re-dresses the wound, shaking with something Athos fails to recognize. He longs to reach out and touch his friend, vaguely aware that something must be wrong for Aramis’ otherwise so steady hands to fail him in such a way. But Athos knows that he is too far gone already, that he could not control himself sufficiently to be free from regret once his mind clears again.

So he just looks at him, takes in the face so familiar to him, and finally lifts his hand to clasp his fingers around Aramis’ wrist – but only when Aramis has finished and the bandages around Athos’ neck are once more secure. “Thank you.”

For one breathless moment, Athos is convinced that Aramis is either going to hit him, or to kiss him. Then Aramis gently frees himself from Athos’ touch, and straightens. “I’ll be leaving you then. Be gentle with him, Porthos. He’s not yet back to full strength.”

“Eh?” Porthos sounds mildly annoyed. “I know that. What do you think I’m gonna do to him?” He spreads a protective hand over Athos’ belly, warm and strong, and Athos holds his breath for fear it will leave his throat accompanied by a moan.

Aramis steps away from the bed. “I’m sure it’s none of my business.” He makes a hasty grab for his hat and then he is gone, has more or less run from the room.

Behind Athos, Porthos lets out a long sigh. “Drat.”

Athos closes his eyes, by now almost dizzy with need. “Porthos.”

Porthos immediately lowers him onto the bed and moves so he can lean over him. “Yeah?”

Athos lifts his right hand and fists it into Porthos’ shirt. “Porthos.”

Porthos smiles down at him. “I’m right here, love.” His tone is not teasing, but instead self-assured and calming, utterly composed. “You need me to do somethin’ for you?”

Athos can only stare up at him, so worn out by keeping himself together that he cannot even ask for what he needs.

“Alright, I’ll start with gettin’ you comfortable, yeah?” Porthos moves before Athos could even think about getting out a reply. He rids Athos of his boots and trousers, and then gently lowers Athos onto the mattress again, still wearing his shirt and undergarments, lies down beside him in the same state of undress. “Is this alright?”

He follows the question up with a kiss, sweet and affectionate, and Athos’ lashes flutter close, and a little bit of the day’s exhaustion falls off him. He turns into Porthos’ embrace and moves closer to him, is never close enough. He needs Porthos so much, he realizes, needs his warmth and steadiness, even if it weren’t for his yearning to be dominated.

“Porthos,” he whispers, and his voice is hoarse with desire and an emotion far more delicate and vulnerable, “please …”

“Anything, love,” Porthos murmurs back, and reaches in between Athos’ legs, cups him gently above his undergarments. “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

“No – I –“ The words tumble out before Athos can stop himself, and his breath catches in his throat. He has never told Porthos no before.

Porthos soothes him with another kiss, and pulls his hand back almost immediately. “You want somethin’ else? Let’s hear it, then.”

He makes it so easy, Athos thinks, to ask and to beg – to admit to his desires. “I want,” he says, and his voice is almost steady now, almost free from tremors, “I want you to use me – please.”

Silence follows, and Athos lifts his head, not afraid of Porthos’ reaction, but a bit confused at the sudden hush.

“Aren’t you too exhausted?” Porthos asks then. “I don’t wanna wear you out.”

Athos almost smiles, and would do so, if the yearning to service Porthos wasn’t foremost on his mind right now. “I want it,” he murmurs huskily, puts both hands on Porthos chest and strokes them slowly up and down, “please let me – please.”

Porthos swears, very softly, and cards his fingers through Athos’ hair, levels an uncertain look at him. “But you –“

“Please,” Athos whispers again, closes his eyes and leans into Porthos’ touch, “I need it so much.”

Porthos swears again, not quite so softly this time, and helps Athos sit up on the edge of the bed. “You beggin’ is gonna be the death of me, someday.”

He gets up then, moves to stand in front of the bed and in between Athos’ spread legs, and the smile drops off his mouth, but not out of his eyes. “I missed you,” he says sincerely, without even a hint of embarrassment. He is standing upright, his shoulders squared, and when he lifts his hand to tangle his fingers in Athos’ hair, all Athos wants to do is let himself fall and drift.

“I missed havin’ you all to myself,” Porthos says quietly, and his fingers tug at Athos’ hair, just enough to elicit a moan. “Missed havin’ your mouth around my cock.” And with that he tugs a little harder, causes Athos to tilt forward until his face is close enough to Porthos’ crotch to feel the heat coming off him. The rest of the way Athos moves all by himself, unresisting and greedy, pushes his face in between Porthos’ legs and takes a deep breath, his whole body shuddering with relief.

Porthos’ fingers comb gently through his hair, and Porthos does not move, keeps himself still for Athos, pets him while Athos drags his parted lips up and down the growing bulge in Porthos’ undergarments.

“You want my cock?” Porthos asks at length, and he still sounds more or less composed, the strain to his voice barely noticeable.

Athos nods.

His reward comes immediately – delivered to him by Porthos crouching down in front of him for a kiss, sweet and affectionate, despite its briefness. “Alright. Then I’m gonna get naked for you. Stay right where you are.”

Athos obeys and remains sitting on the edge of the bed, watches Porthos undress, unable to keep himself from staring. It is so unusual to see so much grace in a man of Porthos’ size; but Porthos has always known how to apply his strength, how to put his muscles to their best possible use. The fire in the hearth plays lovingly over his skin, makes it shimmer, and casts stark shadows where it does not reach.

Athos’ throat is dry when Porthos moves to stand in front of him once more. He licks his lips, his gaze fixed on Porthos’ cock, half hard already. Porthos places a gentle hand beneath Athos’ chin and lifts his head, very slowly. “You’re sure?”

Athos, knowing precisely what he means despite the state of his wits, indicates a nod.

Porthos smiles at him. “Put your hands on my hips, then. And you keep your head still, you hear? No movin’ beyond what I’m doin’.” He lets go of Athos’ chin to place his hand on Athos’ head instead, cards his fingers into his hair and grips it tightly.

Athos moans, and his mouth falls open. This is it, this is just what he needs.

“What do you do when you want me to stop?” Porthos asks above him, his voice still under firm control.

Athos licks his lips, forces himself to speak. “I pinch you.”

Porthos smiles, always so easily pleased by anything Athos might do or say when they are together like this. “That’s it, well done. Open up then.”

Athos obeys, parts his lips eagerly, and Porthos feeds his cock to him, inch by inch. He does so slowly, careful not to choke Athos, and Athos closes his eyes and gives himself over to him, allow Porthos to use him in whatever manner he deems best.

The grip Porthos has on his hair alone is sufficient in keeping him pleasantly afloat, his own arousal heavy between his spread thighs. The way Porthos fucks his mouth is precisely what Athos needs: languid and slow, but relentless. He is choking Athos more and more often as Athos gets used to the sensation of having a cock in his mouth again, and Athos loves it, moans wantonly and does not mind the saliva running down his chin.

He holds on to Porthos’ hips, feels safe with the hot skin beneath his palms, his fingers spread wide – almost possessive.

He swallows around the cock in his mouth, relaxes his throat and takes Porthos as deep as he can. It feels so good to be of proper use, even more so when Porthos starts to whisper words of praise, tells him how good he is doing, how pretty he looks sucking his cock. He keeps petting Athos with his left hand, warm and gentle on Athos’ head, while his right is tangled in Athos’ hair, gripping it tightly and keeping him still. The disparity has long ago stopped to confuse Athos.

Porthos is a gentle master, loving and affectionate, and although he is the one in control, he never abuses his power to cause Athos pain. Instead he makes Athos feel so good that he almost starts to cry with gratefulness, makes him feel the threat of tears behind his closed lids. When Porthos reaches his release they nearly spill, and Athos opens his eyes wide while he swallows, blinks a few times to keep them contained. He looks up at Porthos when he draws back, licks his lips and tries to tell Porthos with his gaze alone how much he means to him.

Porthos smiles and gently pushes Athos back to lie on the bed, with his feet still on the floor, makes sure to place a cushion beneath Athos’ head. Then he bends to lean over him, and the way he looks at him sends a shiver through Athos.

“You did so good,” Porthos whispers, puts his hand to Athos’ cheek and brushes his thumb up and down his skin, lets it stroke over his swollen lips. “You always do so good for me.” He kisses Athos, deep and thoroughly, takes possession of Athos’ mouth with a calm implicitness that sends waves of pleasure through Athos’ blood.

When he releases Athos’ lips they are both of them out of breath, and Porthos kisses Athos’ cheek, nuzzles him playfully. “You up to a little bit of payback? I’ll be very gentle with you, I promise.”

Athos lets his lashes flutter shut and kisses Porthos’ temple. It seems to be sufficient consent. Porthos unlaces Athos undergarments, one-handed and with a few practised twists of his wrists. Then he brushes another fleeting kiss to Athos lips, and goes down to his knees on the wooden floor, bends over Athos’ lap and swallows him down.

He is indeed being gentle, and careful, coaxes Athos’ release out of him with a sweet determination that would surprise most who know him – surprises even Athos, who should know better by now. He is lying on his back, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, not so much out of breath as boneless with pleasure; his mind is utterly empty and filled to the brim with bliss all at once, while Porthos’ hands glide over his chest and belly beneath the fabric of the shirt he’s still wearing.

Porthos gives him time to come back to himself before carefully tucking him back into his undergarments and lacing them back up. Then he gently helps Athos out of his shirt, and just as gently rearranges Athos’ limbs on the bed so he can lie down beside him and pull the blanket over them.

“You alright?” he asks Athos as he pulls him into his arms, and Athos settles against his chest and closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he says softly, “thank you.”

His head is resting on Porthos’ shoulder, and Porthos has draped his arm around him, holds him close. “’S good to be home,” Porthos murmurs, brushes his fingers through Athos’ hair and kisses his forehead.

Athos could not agree more.

 

For the next three days Athos stays away from the garrison, just like the Captain told him to. It is an exercise in self control he does not relish at all, but with Porthos and d’Artagnan and even Constance checking in on him in regular intervals – Constance even going so far as to dragging him out of his lodgings and requesting his escort to the market – he does not fall into despair.

Aramis does not come.

He is busy, according to Porthos, with throwing himself at any pretty damsel that crosses his path – has spent at least one night down by the docks, where the sailors come ashore after weeks at sea.

Athos does not like it, has never liked the idea of Aramis offering himself up like cattle; but he reminds himself forcibly that it is none of his business, and Aramis free to do as he pleases.

It hurts though, that he does not come to check on Athos … although it is understandable that he cherishes his freedom after so many days he had to dance attendance on him. If he was not so afraid that Aramis stays away because of what he witnessed the night they came back to Paris, Athos maybe would not feel so nervous about it.

As it is, it fills him with apprehension, and he does not dare ask Porthos for his opinion, fearing what his reaction might be. Porthos seems to be angry enough at Aramis as it is. D’Artagnan thinks they have quarrelled, and although it is hard to imagine, Athos believes that the boy might be right.

Porthos seems to be rather careful not to mention Aramis’ name when he is with Athos.

Four days after his return to Paris Athos accompanies Constance to the market once more. She says she has gotten used to him carrying her basket for her, and since he is glad of the exercise, he goes with her willingly. Porthos says he likes the two of them spending time together – it annoys her husband more than anything.

That is always a bonus.

This morning, Constance leads Athos around the market stalls in search of fresh vegetables, tells him news about her husband’s business, about the new fabrics Bonacieux has brought from his travels and paid far too much money for, and what she intends to do with them. Athos offers his opinion when asked, and otherwise stays mostly silent.

“You’re brooding,” Constance informs him after half an hour of that, and her frank eyes scan his face anxiously. “Are you in pain, or is it something else? Aramis, perhaps?”

He looks down at her, and tries to hide his surprise behind a bland mask. Surely, Porthos has not told her, well, _everything_. “What about Aramis?”

She frowns and regards a display of carrots on the stand to their left. “Porthos tells me he is even more of a rogue than usual since you’ve come back.”

“Aramis, as deplorable as his behaviour might be at times,” Athos says softly, “has never been a rogue.”

She snorts and selects a few carrots, pays for them, and moves on. “There’d be quite a number of unflattering words for him if he was a woman.”

“I am aware,” Athos says gently. “What I did not know is that Porthos minds it so very much.” He cannot deny that her relaxed attitude and her entire lack of reluctance in discussing this topic comes as a pleasant surprise.

“Oh, he doesn’t grudge him his pleasure,” Constance says immediately. “He just doesn’t like the way he goes about it, this time.” She hesitates and then looks up at Athos again, visibly conflicted. “He worries about him so much, sometimes, but he never says anything to him, and neither do you, and I really do think that’s rather stupid – for how is he supposed to know you care, if you don’t tell him?”

Athos blinks down at her, feeling a little bit as if the muzzle of a gun was pointed at him. “I believe it is none of our business what Aramis does in his spare time – or with whom.”

Constance is visibly displeased with this answer. “Men are such idiots,” she says under her breath, looks around for whatever else she might want to purchase, and stiffens. “Oh, that’s bloody brilliant.”

Athos follows her annoyed stare to a quieter area of the market where the more expensive wares are being sold, and if he is surprised to see Aramis, he is not surprised to see him in attendance to a blonde woman in a crimson cloak, looking beautiful if somewhat overdressed in the early morning light.

“That’s Madame Faudree,” Constance says, exasperated. “She’s the Duke de Veillon’s mistress.”

Athos clears his throat, unreasonably disappointed, and tries to ignore the lead weight of hurt settling into his stomach. “Yes. Naturally. Aramis quite enjoys that kind of affair.”

“Does he enjoy getting shot in the head, too?” Constance asks him sharply. “Because that’s what the Duke does to the men he finds in her chambers – and she makes sure that he finds them, too. Apparently she _enjoys_ to make him jealous.”

Athos stiffens. He vaguely remembers the rumours – has heard that de Veillon’s wealth is what keeps him safe from persecution, that his mistress always claims he was protecting her. He sees the woman say something to Aramis, sees Aramis smile at her, and offer her his arm, and there’s a sudden heat in Athos’ chest – a scorching sensation that propels him forward without so much as a by your leave to Constance.

She takes her basket from him and lets him go, murmurs a satisfied, “Finally” at his retreating back, and continues her shopping without his assistance.

Athos marches across the market, terribly aware of the way his temper tries to get the better of him, and bunches both hands to fists at his sides. He will not get angry at Aramis for this – Aramis might not know. So he takes a few measured breaths, circumvents a cart overflowing with cabbages, and when he finally arrives at Aramis’ side, he is almost calm, can put his hand on Aramis’ shoulder with perfect self-control. “Aramis.”

It would be incorrect to say that Aramis flinches away from him, but the manner in which he turns around is highly suggestive of shock, and his eyes are almost comically wide when he looks at Athos. Clearly, he did not expect to meet Athos at the market at this hour. “What are you doing here?”

Aramis looks pale in the morning light, and the shadows beneath his eyes speak of sleepless nights and insufficient rest. Athos nods to Aramis’ companion, who graces him with a slight incline of the head and the hint of a curtsy. A proud woman, it seems.

“I need to speak with you,” Athos says smoothly. He does not take his hand off Aramis’ shoulder, refuses to do so until Madame relinquishes Aramis’ arm. “I am sure your companion can spare you for a few minutes.”

She seems to take umbrage at this, for her smile turns waxen, but she nods, and when she speaks, her voice is a soft purr, intended to please, “Go with your friend. I am sure he would not have accosted us if it was not important.”

Athos dislikes her immensely, and even Aramis looks a bit strained when he bows over her hand and begs her forgiveness for leaving her. Since she is with her maid, Athos does not quite see the need for that, but does not comment on it.

Instead he drags Aramis with him, away from the market and down the streets until they reach a back alley, quiet and dark, and – most important of all – empty of anyone who might overhear or disturb them.

As soon as they come to a stand, Aramis reaches out to him, tries to touch the neck cloth draped over Athos’ bandages. “Ah, yes, Porthos told me he gave that to you.”

Athos pushes his hand away, with a little more force than intended. “I wish you will stay away from that woman.”

Aramis blinks at him, and then he smiles – brittle and forced. He takes off his hat and holds it between his hands. “Aveline? But why? I promise you, she’s a delightful creature.”

Athos frowns at him. “Constance tells me she will get you killed.”

“Ah, but those are just rumours, my dear Athos,” Aramis says lightly, and his hat suffers slight mistreatment between his hands, “I’m sure there’s no truth at all in them.”

Athos stares at him. “You _knew_.” He feels his pulse quicken, feels a hot rush of anger surge up in his gut, and he takes a deep breath. “Why do you always do this?”

Aramis evades his gaze, stares at the dirty cobbles at his feet. “I’m not doing anything.”

“She _tells_ the Duke, Aramis!” Athos grinds out. “Don’t you understand? She wants him to know! Do you care so little for your life that you must embroil yourself in this kind of affair again and again?”

Aramis shrugs his shoulders, tries to look bored and unaffected. “It’s something to pass the time.”

Athos wants to hit him; by sheer force of will he does not act on it, and despite the anger shaking through him like hot steam shaking the lit of a pot, his voice comes out cold and sharp. “But why her? Don’t tell me you are in love with her – I won’t believe you.”

Now Aramis looks at him, and the expression in his eyes is at first pure amazement – then it turns to soft mockery. “I’m not Porthos,” he says “I’m not so exclusive in my … ah, relationships.”

Athos bristles, and the hot fury in the pit of his stomach only flares higher. “Leave him out of this.”

“How can I?” Aramis says quietly. “He’s the kind of man people place their affections on.” Instead of sounding angry, Aramis sounds desperate, small and helpless, utterly vulnerable. His fingers go limp on the brim of his hat. “I, on the other hand, have to make do with what I can get.”

Athos stares at him, feels his heart flutter in the cage of his ribs like a trapped animal. He is no longer hot inside, but cold, ice spreading out into his fingertips. He knows, suddenly: knows why Aramis keeps running away from them, why he asks so many questions he does not wish to hear the answer to, why he always pushes, but never allows himself to stay. Athos has no idea how he could have been so blind for so long, “You love him.”

Instead of denying it, Aramis merely shrugs, and smiles. He seems to fold in on himself, to shrink under the startled comprehension in Athos’ eyes. “Who wouldn’t? You do, don’t you?” His smile is soft and genuine, and he briefly looks up into Athos’ eyes. “And it’s no wonder, with the way he makes you smile – I couldn’t have done that. Instead of making you happy the way he does, I always make you angry instead.” He clears his throat, puts on his hat again. “So I amuse myself with Aveline, and leave you two in peace.”

Athos feels as though he is suffocating. His mind is spiralling out of control, and the wave of guilt Aramis’ words have stirred up almost manages to push him over and drag him under. If it was not for him, Athos thinks, Aramis and Porthos might be happy together. They always were, after all, with or without him. He tries not to think of that. He _knows_ Porthos would not be with him if he did not care for him.

Athos just does not understand how Porthos could prefer him to Aramis. Surely Porthos must know how Aramis feels for him. He has always known him so well.

“Why her?” Athos asks again, because he does not know what else to say. “Why not someone you could –“

“Someone I could love the way you love Porthos?” Aramis interrupts him, a sharp edge to his voice. “I find that highly unlikely.” He moves then, turns to step away and leave, and Athos reaches out and grabs his shoulder, holds on to him.

He cannot let him leave, not like this.

Aramis turns his head, shows Athos a cold profile, highlighted by pain, “Athos, for the love of God, let go of me.”

When Athos refuses to do so, Aramis pulls his shoulder away with a force that travels through the whole of Athos’ body, causes him to utter a surprised noise of pain when it tugs at his stitches ever so lightly.

Aramis’ reaction is instant: He turns back towards Athos, and grips him by the shoulders. The expression on his face has morphed into one of frightened worry, and he pulls Athos towards himself with a gentle haste that stems from panic and remorse. “Did I hurt you? Are you alright?” His right hand comes up to touch the stitches, very lightly, over bandages and scarf, and they both still.

Athos is breathing too hard, can taste his heartbeat in his throat, and he is staring at Aramis in just about the same way Aramis is staring at him: wide-eyed and overwhelmed, hurting.

Athos will never know which one of them moves first. All he is aware of is the slight pressure of Aramis’ fingers on the scar he left him, of the spreading heat in his gut, the tremble in his own fingers where they grip the leather of Aramis’ uniform.

They are too close, suddenly, breathe each others air, and Aramis looks just as desperate as Athos feels, his eyes haunted. Then they kiss, and Athos' eyes close, and he moans, tastes the echo of the same moan on Aramis’ lips, licks it off his tongue.

Aramis tastes bitter-sweet like wine, and he kisses as if he would drown should Athos push him away. So Athos clings to him, pulls him closer, takes greedy possession of his mouth, takes everything Aramis allows him to have.

Aramis is very generous.

A brief flash of understanding pulses through Athos before need sweeps away all rational thought – he comprehends, suddenly, why there are so many people in Aramis’ past, why it always seems so easy for him to find someone to kiss and be intimate with: _Aramis makes it easy_.

He is so eager to be kissed, gives everything that is demanded of him, holds nothing back – neither his body, nor his voice. He moans into Athos’ mouth, pushes closer to him, wants to be touched, to be held, and Athos cannot refuse him. He takes Aramis into his arms and pulls him impossibly close, puts his hand on Aramis’ cheek and devours his mouth.

Athos feels powerless with want, and Aramis giving him everything he has is of no help at all – it is too much – Athos is drowning with nothing but Aramis to hold on to, who is too far gone himself to keep them both afloat.

They are both panting, biting at each others mouths, never close enough and Athos _hurts_ with the need to be even closer to Aramis, to comfort and pleasure this man who never fails to make him angry, yet never even came close to make Athos stop loving him.

Athos _wants_ Aramis, wants to stretch him out beneath him on the bed and show him that he is wrong – that he is loved, and cared for, that there is no need for him to be content with less, that he can have everything, always.

Aramis whines into his mouth as though he has read Athos’ mind, and their kiss turns gentle, suddenly, turns into something soft and delicate, and Athos buries his hands in Aramis’ hair and sighs, smiles into the kiss.

The sudden barking of a dog, closely followed by the terrified shrieking of a little child makes them break apart and stare at each other, short of breath and with increasing awareness of what they have done.

There is only room for one thought in Athos' mind: Porthos. He has betrayed Porthos.

He has one or two heartbeats to read that same realization in Aramis’ eyes, and then his friend turns away from him and leaves, flees the scene of their crime and abandons Athos to his guilt.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> I hope everyone is alive and well, and ready for this chapter. It has been a wild ride so far. This second part of my series has now eclipsed the first as far as hits and comments are concerned, and I want to thank everyone who has left me a kudos or a comment - you are keeping me happy, and writing, and I could not wish for a more rewarding task than wringing my brain for musketeer adventures.
> 
> I am very happy in this fandom, and with the people I have met!
> 
> Now, sadly, to the bad news: My beta is on holiday yet again. Yes, I know, unbelievable. The next chapter will be up at the earliest one week from today (meaning the 26th of August) but it will probably take a little longer than that. If the suspense is killing you, you may inform me of that sad state of affairs, and I might try to ease your pain. ... Or I might just be a giant tease about it. You never know unless you try.

For a long moment, Athos remains unmoving in the dank alley. His body is still flushed from kissing Aramis, his lips feel swollen and slick – but his chest is as empty as his mind.

He has kissed Aramis and it felt good, it felt _right_ , but he loves _Porthos_ , and Aramis loves him too, and now they have betrayed him, betrayed his trust and his friendship despite everything he has done for them. Athos fails to understand how he could do such a thing, how he could be so weak – no, he understands that. He has always been weak.

He blinks, slowly, tries to remember where he is, and licks his lips – tastes Aramis on them and closes his eyes with a shuddering breath. He has never deserved Porthos, and now he has proven it beyond a doubt.

His eyes fall to the ground and perceive Aramis’ hat, laying upturned on the cobbles. Aramis must have lost it during their kiss. Athos bends down to pick it off the ground as one sleepwalking … stands staring down at it with a blank expression.

He took the first chance to yield to temptation that offered itself, and it makes no difference that it was _Aramis_. Athos was unfaithful to the one man who has never hurt him, who was always good to him. Although there was never a question of whether Athos would end up in Heaven or Hell once his life is spent, he will now gladly help to stoke the flames that burn him while he waits for eternity to end.

He takes a deep breath and turns, starts to walk – not back to the market, not back to Constance and into the light of morning, but instead into another dark alley, a back slum, full of refuse and dirty water, rank with the smell of poverty.

Surely, he will find a tavern here.

He does find a tavern, as dirty on the inside as it is on the outside, dim and smelly. They serve him, although it is still early in the morning – the cheapest wine he has ever tasted, sour and sickly sweet at once. He puts Aramis’ hat on the table in front of him and stares at it while he drinks, pours the wine down his throat as though he would die of thirst if he didn’t; and when his glass is empty, he immediately refills it to the brim, lifts it to his mouth once more.

Then he stops.

He has barely done this since Porthos asked him to stop drinking and took him home that night so many weeks ago, has not indulged in this ruinous weakness ever since Porthos has started taking such good care of him. It would be another form of betrayal to succumb to the alcohol, to drown himself in wine until he is able to forget – and lose himself by doing so.

Athos wants to forget, wants to drink and destroy himself a little more, but he cannot do so – not until he has confessed to Porthos, not until Porthos condemns him, and releases Athos from their bond to do with his worthless life as he pleases.

So Athos carefully sets the glass back down on the dirty table, reaches out for Aramis’ hat, and gets up. He leaves the tavern, entirely unheeded by its proprietors, and turns towards the garrison out of unerring instinct – he could always find it, even before, no matter where in the city he found himself, no matter how drunk he was.

The way seems long, this time, the people crowding the streets too loud and too shrill, and Athos pulls his hat down into his eyes and hunches his shoulders. He tries to breathe through it, sets one foot in front of the other and marches on – just the way he did before Porthos made his life worth living again.

When he eventually reaches the garrison, he does not immediately see Porthos – is seized by sudden fear that he was sent out on a mission, and stops dead in the entrance way. But then Porthos calls out to him, emerges from the smithy’s alcove with a smile so bright as to outshine the sun, and crosses the yard towards Athos in a few long strides.

But the closer Porthos gets to him, the more his smile dims, and when he is standing right in front of Athos, he looks so worried that it sickens Athos, twists the guilt inside him so tight that he starts to feel faint.

“What happened?” Porthos asks, and his gaze scans Athos’ body for injury. It rests for a long moment on the hat in Athos’ hands, while his own hands reach out to steady Athos. “Athos, what happened? What are you doin’ with Aramis’ hat?”

Athos wants to withdraw from his touch and cannot bring himself to do so. He swallows convulsively, agonizingly aware that this is not the right place to tell Porthos, that he needs to take him somewhere else.

“I am unhurt,” he says. It is the least he can do for Porthos – allay his worries and spare him anxiety. “Can you – do you have any orders, or can you come with me? I need … I need to speak with you.”

Porthos frowns and looks down at Athos’ face for what feels like eternity. Athos tries as best he can to encounter that searching gaze without flinching, but his throat closes up with rising panic, and the pain in his chest spreads like poison ink.

“Of course I can come with you,” Porthos says at length. “Shall we go home?”

Athos nods, despite the stab of regret in his gut at Porthos’ choice of words. Athos imagines he will never hear Porthos call it that again – at least not for him.

 

Porthos takes Athos home on the fastest way, makes use of back-alleys and short-cuts – does not let go of Athos’ shoulder for even a moment, no matter how many hapless strangers he has to push out of the way to make room for them both in the narrower alleys. His otherwise so steadying touch makes Athos tremble in sickening apprehension, and he bites his lip, tries to keep it all in, trap it all inside until they arrive at their destination, and none but Porthos will witness Athos break down.

To lose everything he cherishes most for the second time in his life … Athos does not believe he will recover, this time. Because it was _good_ this time, not only the illusion of bliss, but real, genuine happiness, built on a solid foundation, resting on brotherhood and trust, and unfailing loyalty. Athos barely recovered from the loss of his former life, and he could only do so because he had Porthos, and Aramis, too, to pull him out of his head and fill him with their light. He has lost them both now. All that remains to him is a bottomless pit to cast himself into.

It seems to Athos that it takes far longer than usual to get to Porthos’ lodgings; but when they arrive it is still too soon. Athos’ heart leaps into his throat as he watches Porthos unlock the door, and when Porthos shoves him through it and shuts it behind them, Athos’ knees weaken to the point that he can no longer keep himself upright.

He staggers to the bed and falls down on it, forbids himself the indignity of crumbling to the floor. Not yet. He will do so soon enough.

Aramis’ hat drops from his unresisting fingers and lies on the bed next to him – a silent reminder of what has happened. As though Athos could forget.

Porthos rushes to his side, goes down on one knee and puts both of his hands to Athos’ cheeks, lifts up his head to look at him – smells the cheap wine on Athos’ breath. His expression darkens, but his hands remain gentle. “What happened, love? Where’d you get Aramis’ hat?”

Athos wishes he had drunk more, suddenly. He cannot stand it, neither the loving touch nor the endearment, and he lifts his hands and closes them around Porthos’ wrists, pulls him off. “Please,” he grinds out, “please do not touch me.”

Porthos does not fight him, gives in as he always does, and Athos feels a sob rise in his throat, and bites down on it. _Not yet_.

Porthos gives him space, moves back to sit on the floor, takes off his hat and puts it down next to him. He remains close enough for Athos to draw comfort from his presence, and Athos does, strangely enough, even though he should not. He has lost that right, forfeited it to a stolen kiss.

Porthos is looking up at him with an expression of worried unease on his face. The corners of his mouth are pulled down, and his eyes, otherwise so bright, are dark with discontent.

Athos takes a shaking breath – and steadies, goes calm with the knowledge that whatever will happen is his own fault, that he brought the inevitable consequences on himself. “You will not like what I have to tell you,” he says; his voice sounds dry and cold; his face feels like it is turning into a mask of ice, “and I am not … I am not asking for your forgiveness.”

Porthos’ frown deepens at that, and he tilts his head, but he does not interrupt. It hurts just to look at him, at his trusting, concerned eyes, and Athos closes his own. “I betrayed you.”

He expects some sort of reaction, and when it does not come, when Porthos remains utterly quiet, Athos looks at Porthos again, afraid of what he might see. Porthos seems to be entirely calm, if still very apprehensive. “Alright. What did you do then?”

Athos stares at him, and the words come wholly unbidden. He is not ready yet – not ready to cut the ties that bind him to Porthos, not ready to lose him. Nevertheless, the words rise up his throat and fall over his lips, despite his fear of their consequences, “I kissed Aramis.”

The air seems to freeze around them, and Porthos does not move.

The terrible moment passes, and Porthos blinks at him – _smiles_. “You did?” He sounds a bit wistful, to be sure, but there is none of the anger Athos expected, no hint of betrayed trust. He looks _glad_ , relieved even.

Athos fears he might have gone mad – that his dread of Porthos’ reaction has scattered his wits so far that they are _lost_ to him.

“You do not understand!” he croaks, his throat so dry that his voice comes out as a pained whisper.

Porthos’ eyes sharpen at that, and he straightens. “You didn’t want to kiss him? Surely he didn’t force you?”

“N-no, I wanted it –” Athos stammers, and clamps his mouth shut, fearful of what horrible truth he might let escape next – frightened out of his wits because it _is_ the truth, because even now he can think back to that kiss and lose himself in the memory of feeling Aramis’ body against his own.

Porthos relaxes immediately, but he bites his bottom lip, and hangs his head. He breathes out very slowly, as though afraid that he might crumble if he releases the air from his lungs too fast. “I’m glad you did it, then. So it really was that what was wrong with him, eh? Drove me mad that I just couldn’t be sure about that for the longest time.” His face contorts into a grimace of guilt, and his eyes beg Athos for forgiveness. “I see now that I should’ve told you all along – it was stupid of me to keep my suspicions to myself ...”

Athos stares at him in silent amazement, entirely unable to grasp his meaning. “I kissed Aramis!” he repeats, and his voice breaks over Aramis’ name. “I held him in my arms and I – it felt so good, Porthos, just as good as when you are holding me, and – and I don’t know why I did it,” he gasps and brings one hand up to his forehead, hides his eyes.

He should be crying, he thinks, but his eyes are dry, burn with unshed tears. He should stop talking, too, he knows that, but the words want out, all of them, and he cannot keep them contained. “One moment I was so angry at him that I wanted to strangle him, and the next we were kissing, and I could not stop – I am so sorry, Porthos, so sorry for betraying you like this, and I swear to you it will not happen again, I could never take him away from you –”

Athos does not hear Porthos move, but nevertheless he is there, suddenly, draws Athos into his arms and onto his lap, throws Athos’ hat on the floor next to his own when it bothers him. “Stop, love, stop – calm down, please. There’s no need for your fretting, I promise you, no need at all.”

Athos fights against his touch, against his closeness, does not want to be held and comforted, because he does not _deserve_ it – never has. But Porthos is stronger than him, has always been stronger than him, and for once he refuses to be pushed away. He puts his arms around Athos and holds him, kisses his face, every inch of it that he can reach, whispers quiet declarations of unwavering affection.

After a while Athos feels too weak to fight him anymore, and his tears spill over, leak out the corners of his eyes and run down his cheeks. Athos sighs and goes limp, and lifts his head – and Porthos kisses him, soft and sweet, gently licks into Athos mouth when he opens up for him. “There, that’s better,” he whispers, strokes Athos’ hair out of his eyes, wipes away his tears, even directs a gentle smile at Athos. “Have you calmed down?”

Athos’ breath gets locked in his throat, at the sight of that smile, and another sob claws its way out – tears down all his armour. He does not understand how Porthos can still look at him like that, how he can still smile so fondly at him, so full of affection that it _hurts_ Athos to see it directed at someone as unworthy as he is. He hides his face in Porthos shoulder and cries, does not know whether it is relief that streams through him, or fear, or even guilt.

Porthos holds him through it, keeps his arms around him and _rocks_ him, as though Athos was a child, woken up from a nightmare and reluctant to return to reality. He is quiet, lets his hands speak for him, strokes through Athos’ hair and down his back, and his presence calms Athos’ frazzled mind as it always does.

“That’s it,” Porthos whispers when Athos’ sobs calm down and he breathes just a little easier. “I’m ‘ere, love – I’m ‘ere for you.”

Athos squeezes his eyes shut hard, forces the last of his tears out, and tries to get a grip, takes a few deep breaths, unsteady and stuttering. He cannot though, not like this. Each and every single breath he is taking still hurts him.

When he tries to get out of Porthos’ arms this time, Porthos lets him – allows him to move off his lap and onto the floor, allows Athos to put his head into his lap instead.

Athos starts to drift almost instantly. He has been on the brink of letting go ever since he set foot into the garrison and heard Porthos speak his name. Now, on his knees on the floor, with Porthos leaning over him, there seems to be no need to hold himself together any more.

Porthos is gentle as always, and his caresses are deliberate: he cards his fingers through Athos’ hair and over his nape, lets his fingertips brush over Athos’ skin again and again, murmurs an endless flow of soothing reassurance. “Shht, it’s alright, love. I’m not gonna leave you, we’re alright, it’s all good.”

It is easier to let his voice wash over him like this, easier to close his eyes and find back to himself. Athos’ chest stops to hurt, after a while, as does his heart. When breathing is no longer something he has to force himself to do, it is much easier to actually listen to what Porthos is saying to him – what he has been saying all along.

Athos lifts his head, opens his lashes to look at Porthos, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, wipes the back of his hand over his burning eyes. “I do not understand.” He has to force the words out, and his voice sounds wrecked, beaten and helpless. Athos flushes, ashamed for so many reasons, and lets his gaze drop to the open folds of Porthos’ shirt instead of looking at his face. “Why are you not angry?”

It is almost as if Porthos does not care at all. But that has to be wrong. Porthos always cares. His hands on Athos’ cheeks, gentle and warm, are evidence enough.

“I’m not angry,” Porthos says carefully, and strokes the hair off Athos’ forehead “because as long as it’s Aramis you kiss, that’s fine with me.”

Athos is so startled that his eyes fly up to look at Porthos’ face once more, but all he finds there is calm sincerity. Porthos’ eyes are warm and dark, entirely honest. He means it. He really means what he says.

“But –“ Athos says, and does not know what to follow that up with.

Porthos shrugs. “It’s Aramis.” He says it as if that was sufficient explanation, and somehow it _is_ , but Athos could never allow that to be true. He made a commitment to Porthos, he owes him his fidelity.

“That is no excuse!” he says, full of self-loathing, and his fingers dig into Porthos’ thigh muscles. “A man should be faithful to – to the one he –“ He cannot say it, no matter how hard he tries, and Porthos leans forward and kisses him.

“Don’t be daft, love,” he tells him gently, rubs his thumbs over Athos’ cheekbones. “You’ve loved Aramis for as long as you’ve loved me, and I never expected you to deny yourself half of your heart.”

Athos can only stare at him in mute astonishment. Porthos’ uncanny ability to garb his truth in simple but beautiful language has always been somewhat confounding. “But,” he gets out eventually, “but you are the one who –“

“I’m just the one who kissed you first,” Porthos interrupts him, voice quiet but firm, “and I’ll always be grateful for that privilege.”

Something breaks in Athos at the words, and he can only stare at Porthos for a long, long moment. Then he lifts his hands on puts them on Porthos’ cheeks, looks at him as if he has never seen him before – will never see him again; he memorizes the face that has become so dear to him, the smile that lurks in the corners of Porthos’ eyes even now, the one Athos thought was lost to him.

Athos pulls at him, very gently, and Porthos allows himself to be pulled, leans forward and into the kiss Athos is rising up to. Athos puts his arms around Porthos’ neck and tries to hold on to him against the whirling confusion that is tearing at his mind.

His heart is full, overflowing with affection for Porthos, and by rights there should not be any space left for Aramis, but he is there, right beside what Athos feels for Porthos. The realization that Athos not only loves, but wants them both is staggering; it leaves him reeling and bewildered as to how a man could possibly be in love with two persons at once when he made an oath to never let himself feel that way again for _anyone_ – leaves him terrified.

It can never be, Athos knows that. He has to make a choice, as impossible as it may be; but Porthos keeps kissing him as if there was no choice at all. Instead of asking Athos to make up his mind, Porthos slides down from the bed to kneel with him on the floor, and take Athos properly into his arms.

Athos sobs into the kiss as the fear falls off him, as he realizes with brilliant clarity that whatever he may decide, Porthos will not be lost to him, that he does not begrudge him his kiss with Aramis –

A sobering wave of recollection breaks over Athos, and he surges back, breaks the kiss with a wet, utterly indecent noise. “But he loves _you_ ,” he pants, looks at Porthos’ flushed face in confused indignation. “He said so!”

Porthos blinks at him, very slowly, and pulls Athos forward for another soft kiss. Athos melts into it, but he does not forget the fresh dilemma that is preying on his mind, and when Porthos releases him, his question is no surprise at all, “Aramis actually opened his foolish mouth and said that he loves me?”

Athos frowns, unable to confirm this. Aramis did not say that he loves Porthos. Athos had said it, and Aramis merely did not contradict him. Porthos nods knowledgeably. “Thought so.” He smiles at Athos. “Cause you’re the one he loves, see – why else would he be kissin’ you?”

Athos finds it strangely difficult to argue against this, despite his certain knowledge that it is obviously false. He tells Porthos what happened between him and Aramis, how they came to be alone in that dark alley in the first place, does not leave out even the smallest detail.

Porthos listens to him with a gaze that is wide awake and intent, but a frown descents onto his brow the further Athos advances in his story. “So that’s how much he’s hurtin’, eh?” he says once Athos is finished. “No wonder he wouldn’t admit it.” His eyes flash in anger for a moment. “Shouldn’t’ve run from you the way he did, though.”

Athos goes very still, and does not say anything. He did not kiss Aramis out of pity, and he will not pretend that he did. But remembering the way Aramis talked about himself is like remembering a day out in the snow, when Athos’ hands started to fumble their grip on the reigns, and his feet were so cold that he could not feel them anymore.

“We need to find him,” he says, and his voice is blessedly calm, despite the worry eating him up from inside. “He should not be alone right now.”

Porthos nods. “He’s probably doin’ somethin’ stupid.”

Athos arches his brow at him, tries to build his defences back up. “Hopefully not Madame Faudree.”

Porthos rewards that with a fleeting grin, kisses him once more. “We’ll find him. And then we’ll tell him that he can kiss you as much as he likes – as long as you’re fine with it.”

He helps Athos up on his feet, and bends down to get their hats off the floor as well, dusts them off.

Athos watches him, somewhat bemused. “But I am not at all sure that I am.” He is still floating, albeit close to the ground, his mind still not quite as clear as it should be.

Porthos blinks at him. “But you said it felt good. And you love him.”

Athos wishes that Porthos would stop using that word. It still hurts, hearing it from anyone but her, even after all these years – even though she never meant it. Maybe that is the trouble right there.

Athos takes his hat from Porthos and puts it on, wipes at his still burning eyes, and does not say anything. Porthos quietly hands him a bowl of water to wash his face, dries Athos off with his bandana afterwards.

He does not ask Athos whether he’d rather stay behind, does not offer to search for Aramis by himself, and Athos is glad for it. He feels tired, yes, and overwhelmed, but busying himself with something beside his own troubles is just what he needs right now, and Porthos knows that just as well as Athos does.

They leave Porthos’ lodgings side by side, and turn into the direction of he market, and thus the alley where Athos saw Aramis last. The sky is pale blue above them, spotted with clouds, and gusts of wind reach down into the streets, tug at their hats. They walk in silence for a while, but then Porthos speaks up, lets out a little sigh. “I tried to kiss him once, you know – years ago.”

Athos turns his head to stare at him. Porthos grins, a little guiltily, and shrugs. “I’d just joined, and I thought that’s what he did, you know – goin’ around and kissin’ people.”

The mere idea of Porthos and Aramis kissing is sufficient to make Athos flush, and he tries to hide his confused emotions beneath a cool surface. “You are not entirely wrong.”

Porthos frowns. “No, not entirely. But he wouldn’t kiss me, you see – he said he’s true to his lady. And I believed him, and that was that. I was a little miffed when he had a different lady, not a week later, but I got the hint.”

Athos clears his throat. “You never tried again?”

“No,” Porthos says, his voice a bit rough. “Found out it was much better to be his friend.”

Athos stops in his tracks. “I sincerely hope you never told him so?”

Porthos scrunches up his face in recollection. “I might have, once, when we were drunk. I doubt he remembers it.”

Athos sighs. “Oh, believe me, he remembers.”

No wonder Aramis never tried to get close to Porthos – believing he could either be his lover or his friend, that he couldn’t have both. No wonder he got so desperate that he kissed Athos instead. Typical, really, that the one time Aramis managed to control himself, it would have been better if he hadn’t.

Athos can only imagine how it started to prey on Aramis’ mind – that one kiss he was idiot enough to refuse … how much it hurt him when he saw Porthos kiss Athos instead.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Porthos’ voice breaks into Athos’ spinning thoughts. “Why shouldn’t I’ve said that to him?”

Athos tells him.

Porthos looks positively scandalized at the very idea. “You mean he kept that nonsense in his head all those years when he forgets to lock his door pretty much every damn day?” He takes a sharp cut to the left and growls. “I’m gonna _strangle_ him when I find him!”

 

They fail to do so for almost three hours. Wherever Aramis went after he left Athos, he must have done so unusually discretely. The more time passes without a trace of him, the colder and quieter Athos gets, and his mind starts to float a little higher, tries to get away from him.

Even with the innumerable alleys and side streets that make up the Parisian panorama, and the multitude of people roaming those streets it is unusual for Aramis to pass anywhere unnoticed. His height as well as his looks demand attention, and he never shrinks from it – smiles brighter the more people look at him, positively revels in their stares.

“Ay, I saw such a one,” the voice of an elderly woman penetrates into these cogitations, and Athos turns around to see her talking to Porthos. They are close to the harbour now, in one of the poorer streets, but she looks clean and sharp-eyed, despite the way that age has bent her back. “Looked as morose as megrim, that one. Went off that-a-way.” She points a crooked finger down another alley, in the direction of the harbour, then glances up at Porthos. “He a friend of yours?”

Porthos nods.

“Then you better hurry. He had that soldiers’ stare, you know – the one they get before they do somethin’ idiotic like gettin’ shot. My son got it too, once – never saw him again.”

Porthos turns his head to look at Athos, and they both know what stare she is talking about – that unfocused glaring at empty space, when Aramis is losing himself in memories of Savoy.

So they leave her behind and more or less run in the direction she pointed at, rush down a number of narrow alleys. Porthos stops, suddenly, and Athos runs into him. “What?” he wheezes, his breath effectively knocked out of him, “Why are we stopping?”

“Found a tavern,” Porthos says – and goes inside. The place is even worse than the one Athos found himself in this morning. It is dark, its windows so dirty as to block out almost all daylight; a few cheap candles burn in the corners, flicker and smoke. The taproom is crowded, nevertheless, the tavern’s clientele an unwashed group of miscreants, each one looking more prone to violence than the last.

Even as detached from reality as he currently is – or maybe _because_ he is – Athos puts his hand on his sword-hilt, and his blood quickens in readiness for a fight.

But then Porthos’ throat leaves a victorious sound, and Athos almost starts to cry when he spots a familiar head of unruly dark hair in the corner furthest from the door. His relief is short-lived, though. Aramis looks terrible, his clothes are dirty and dishevelled, and he is so drunk that he fails to recognize them at first. When he does, he shrinks back from Porthos’ touch, a look of horrified guilt on his face. “No – no no no, please, don’t.”

Porthos frowns, and picks him up – carries him out of the tavern despite Aramis’ desperate struggling. Athos follows them out, prepared to defend them if necessary, but no-one pays them any heed. You could probably cut someone’s throat in this tavern, and walk out unmolested.

Compared with the dimness inside, the sunlight outside the door is so bright that it blinds Athos at first, resulting in somewhat clumsy groping for the door’s handle to pull it shut behind them. After that is accomplished Athos turns around and has to blink a few times before he makes out Porthos’ sturdy frame on the opposite side of the narrow street, a few steps away from the tavern’s entrance. Porthos has deposited Aramis against the wall, and tries to get through to him – tries to make him understand that he does not need to be afraid of him.

His soft entreaties feel to Athos like a musket shot to the gut.

Aramis has never been afraid of Porthos, not once in all the time they’ve known each other. Now his eyes are wide and wet, and he tries to shield himself from Porthos as if Porthos had the intention to hit him. Nothing Porthos says to him does any good, and Athos shrinks back from them in astonishment when Porthos suddenly growls at Aramis, when he makes himself bigger and imposing, and shakes Aramis as if he was nothing more than a naughty little boy. “Stop this nonsense or I’ll put you over my knee!”

Amazingly enough, that does it. Aramis’ arms fall down as if he was a puppet whose strings were cut, and he gazes up at Porthos, blinks a few times – and throws himself at Porthos’ chest. “I’m so sorry,” he slurs, pushes his face into the folds of Porthos’ shirt and clings to him with both hands, “I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to, you have to believe me – I didn’t mean to!”

Porthos puts his arms around him, instantly himself again, and kisses the top of Aramis’ head, pulls him closer. “I know, shht, it’s alright, Aramis, I know.”

Athos feels as though he is drowning. He fights with himself for a heartbeat or two, but then he steps forward, carefully, afraid of startling Aramis into flight.

When he reaches out his hand to touch Aramis’ shoulder, Aramis’ reaction startles him instead.

Aramis lifts his head, twists it around to look at Athos, and once he recognizes him, he twists his body around as well, stretches out both arms and pulls Athos towards him with single-minded determination. “I didn’t mean to,” he says again, both of this hands fisted into the leather of Athos’ uniform jacket. The look in his eyes is disquietingly intent, almost manic. “I tried so hard not to, Athos, you have to believe me.”

“I do,” Athos says automatically. His voice is smooth, presents an untroubled surface over the disturbed depths of his emotions, “I believe you.”

His outward calmness seems to calm Aramis as well, and he slumps back against Porthos, lets his head hang down and allows his hair to fall into his eyes. “Please don’t leave me.”

“We won’t,” Porthos says, his heart in his voice, and hugs Aramis to his chest.

Aramis lifts his head back up when Athos remains quiet, and his gaze is fearful again. “But I kissed –” He swallows, focuses his eyes on Athos before he hastily stares at the ground instead. “I kissed you.”

Athos pulls him into his arms then, still unable to say anything, his heart keeping his voice trapped inside his chest. Aramis comes willingly, just as he did when they were kissing, pushes into the embrace and hides his face against Athos’ neck. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I will not,” Athos says, finally, puts his arms around Aramis and holds him close. “I promise you, I will not leave you – and neither will Porthos.”

Aramis clings to him for a long moment, but then he hastily pushes Athos away, twists out of their embrace and is noisily sick into the gutter to their left. Porthos sighs and holds him upright, holds Aramis’ hair out of his face with gentle care, apparently neither discomfited by Aramis’ helpless retching, nor by the smell.

Athos supposes Porthos has ample experience with this, given the fact how often he took it upon himself to bring Athos home when he was too drunk to accomplish that feat by himself, and looks on in strangely detached self-awareness.

Once Aramis’ stomach stops heaving, Porthos pulls him upright. “All out?”

Aramis looks thoroughly exhausted, but he nods, and Porthos bends down to lift him up into his arms. “I’m gonna take it very personal if you get sick over me – so try to warn me, yeah?”

Aramis flails a little, which accomplishes precisely nothing. “I can walk!” He slurs the words so much as to be almost incomprehensible.

“No, you can’t,” Porthos grunts, holding him with ease. “And to be quite honest, I’m fed up with people tryin’ to tell me they can walk when they clearly can’t.” He looks around to direct a somewhat concerned gaze at Athos. “You alright?”

Athos is not sure that he is, now that he sees Aramis and Porthos together like this, but he nods, nevertheless. “Of course.” He clears his throat. “His lodgings are closest.”

Porthos grunts in agreement. “Take the lead, please.”

Athos does, and they make good progress – only have to stop once when Aramis’ stomach acts up again. When they reach Aramis’ lodgings, they find the door unlocked as usual, and Porthos kicks it shut behind him, clearly remembering his earlier frustration about Aramis’ erratic memory. He puts Aramis down in the middle of the room and prevents him from falling to the floor with a secure grip around his upper arms.

With most of the alcohol he imbibed since the morning no longer in his system, Aramis shows alarming signs of being overcome by guilt again. He refuses to look at either one of them, stares down at the floor, but does not try to get away from under Porthos’ hands.

That, at least, is somewhat relieving. Athos hopes he never has to witness Aramis shrinking from Porthos’ touch ever again. It is just not natural.

“I’m gonna clean you up now, Aramis.” Porthos’ tone is quiet, but firm – and there is a very noticeable aspect of command to his statement. Athos flushes, despite the fact that it is not directed at him, and his heartbeat spikes in unexpected pleasure.

Aramis merely nods, allows Porthos to walk him over to the bed, and yields to the gentle pressure on his shoulder – sits down without a hint of reluctance.

Athos watches silently as Porthos gets the basin of rain water from the window sill, watches him put it on the floor and sit down next to Aramis on the bed; he watches Porthos struggle with the buttons on Aramis’ uniform, and finally steps forward to help him, not so much acting for himself, but as an extension of Porthos.

Athos goes down to his knees in front of Aramis, his gaze fixed on buttons and buckles instead of Aramis’ face, undoes each one with an unhurried preciseness that stands in stark contrast to the trouble in his heart and mind.

Once Athos is done with the various devices keeping Aramis’ jacket closed, he helps Porthos pushing it off Aramis’ shoulders, and since he is down on the floor already, takes it upon himself to strip the boots off Aramis’ feet as well.

Aramis, who seldom apologizes for anything, whispers that he is sorry once more, and when Athos looks up, he finds Aramis gazing down at him, his eyes wet with new tears. “I’ve ruined everything.”

Athos mouth remains shut. He has no idea what to say.

Porthos growls. It seems that Aramis’ contriteness does not impress him at all.

“You’ve done nothin' of the sort,” he informs Aramis gruffly and gets up to search Aramis’ cupboards for something to rinse his mouth with. He smells a few bottles, wrinkles his nose in distaste at most of them, and finally returns with something he forces between Aramis’ lips without even a hint of compassion. “Don’t swallow it, mind – that doesn’t smell like somethin’ you’re supposed to swallow. Where do you always _get_ this stuff?”

Aramis, preoccupied with gargling and coughing, gives no answer. Porthos produces the bucket from beneath the bed and lets Aramis spit, then produces a flask of water. “Here – drink that.”

Aramis, entirely docile by now, does as he is told, and drinks until the flask is empty. Porthos puts it away again, and when he returns to the bed, he pulls Aramis’ shirt over his head without further ado. Once the shirt is off Aramis directs a somewhat startled glance at him, confused and almost frightened. Porthos sits down at his right side and strokes Aramis’ tousled hair out of his face, both hands gentle on Aramis’ cheeks. “Told you I’m gonna clean you up.”

His voice is not nearly as soft as it is when Athos and him are together in bed. It commands the same calm though, the same sturdy firmness that tells you without room for doubt that he will take care of you – that he knows exactly what he is doing, and that it would be foolish beyond permission to fight back.

Aramis evades Porthos’ gaze almost immediately, but the flush to his cheeks is prominent on his pale skin, and Athos feels an answering warmth in his belly. Watching Porthos take care of someone else should maybe make him jealous, but instead it leaves him flushed and strangely excited – does to him what it seems to be doing to Aramis.

Porthos pulls the water basin closer towards his feet and starts to wash Aramis, using a rough cloth whose white fabric stands in stark contrast to Porthos’ dark skin. The way he lets it glide over Aramis’ face, neck, and chest is not so much thorough as _loving_ – he turns each touch into a caress, doesn’t allow Aramis to squirm away, but keeps him steady as he cleans the day’s traces off him.

Aramis does not try to get away for very long – he surrenders soon enough, lets Porthos do whatever he wants with him, is passive under his ministrations – seems to move steadily closer to him although there was already very little space between them to begin with. The expression in his eyes is not empty, but enraptured, has nothing to do with the lost stare of bad memories.

Aramis knows where he is, and with whom – is losing himself in the present, not in the past.

Athos knows precisely what Aramis feels, and it should frighten him, perhaps.

It does not.

Despite the absence of fear, Athos’ eyes go wider the closer Aramis moves towards Porthos, the more he relaxes under Porthos’ touch. Athos has risen from the floor when Porthos started to wash Aramis, and is looking down at them from a little distance now. Although he cannot begrudge Aramis his obvious enjoyment of Porthos’ care, he did not expect his friend to be so utterly submissive in receiving it.

The ongoing lack of resistance lures him closer, and he sits down on the bed on Aramis’ left side, turns a quiet, pleading gaze at Porthos. Porthos’ mouth quirks into a smile, and he hands the cloth to Athos willingly, watches Athos do his part in washing away any and all evidence of the hours Aramis spent in the tavern.

As soon as Athos touches him, Aramis’ eyes fly up to his face with the exact same expression he had when Porthos took away his shirt; so Athos tries to use the same tone of voice Porthos did – that same steady reassurance, the same implicitness. “I told you we would not leave you.”

Aramis closes his eyes, then, and leans into his touch, and Athos lets the cloth glide over Aramis’ chest, watches its progress over the creamy skin covered in bruises and scratches (none of them older than three days), wipes it over his belly and lower. He catches himself just in time, appalled by what he is doing, and slowly draws his hand away when his fingertips brush against the leather of Aramis’ trousers.

“It’s alright,” Porthos says quietly from Aramis’ right side, “he’s clean enough now.” He takes the cloth from Athos and hangs it up to dry, returns to the bed with a curiously blank expression. “Let’s put him to bed.”

He crouches down in front of Aramis, unlaces his trousers. Athos can do nothing but stare, his mouth suddenly too dry for speech. “Are you – what -?” He stops and clears his throat, unsure how to phrase his concerns.

“Harder to run away in the mornin' without trousers,” Porthos says quietly and stands up, pushes at Aramis’ shoulder so he falls back onto the bed. “Up with your hips.”

Athos goes hot all over when Aramis obeys without even a second of hesitation, when he lifts his hips so Porthos can pull down his trousers, and allows him to pull them off his legs. His heart jumps up into his throat when he watches Aramis close his eyes and bite his lip while Porthos is undressing him. Athos automatically mirrors the gesture, bites his own lip and holds back a moan.

Aramis remains flat on his back afterward, spread out on the sheets in just his undergarments, and Athos looks down at him, lifts his hand as if he was in a trance, and traces a particularly vivid scratch high on Aramis’ ribcage. It occurs to Athos, suddenly, that he should not do this – that he should keep his distance and let Porthos care for Aramis by himself … the way Aramis surely wants it to be.

But Aramis is looking up at him with such a soft, hopeful expression in his eyes that Athos cannot bring himself to get up and leave him. So he helps Porthos arrange Aramis’ limbs on the bed instead, pulls the blanket over him, and sits back down at his side. “Sleep,” he orders, fails to recognize his own voice. “You will feel better in the morning.”

“You won’t leave?” Aramis asks, tired and child-like, and his fingers circle around Athos’ wrist in a gesture that is as innocent as it is unconscious.

“I will not leave you,” Athos replies quietly, and he does not look up when Porthos sits down at Aramis other side. “We will both stay with you, I promise.”

He is not surprised to see Porthos bend over Aramis to press a kiss to his forehead, is not surprised to hear him repeat Athos’ command. “Sleep, you fool. We’ll be here for you in the mornin'.”

Aramis smiles and closes his eyes, and a moment later he is asleep, his fingers still circling Athos’ wrist. His breathing turns deep and regular almost instantly, and Athos can only assume that he has not had a night of proper rest since they returned to Paris. Athos feels an answering exhaustion creep into his bones, accompanied by a warmth he is reluctant to accept. He very carefully removes Aramis’ grasp from around his wrist and turns so he can rest his elbows on his knees and put his head into his hands.

He promptly lifts it again when Porthos abruptly stands up to stride across the room, back and forth, as restless as Athos has ever seen him. When Athos looks at his face, he is startled to detect tears in Porthos’ eyes, angry and helpless.

“Why is he always so stupid?” Porthos growls, and his voice carries his emotions without fail, although he tries very hard to keep it quiet. “Why didn’t he come to us? How – how could he do this to himself?” He takes another turn about the room, visibly aching for something or preferably someone to hit. “Why can’t he trust us, after everything –“

Athos remains seated by Aramis’ side, anxiety flaring up in his chest the longer he watches Porthos march about the room. “He … we betrayed you, Porthos. Surely you must see, how that –“

“I don’t see anythin’!” Porthos grinds out. “You don’t betray me by lovin’ each other – that’s just nonsense! You don’t belong to me, I’m not your keeper! Even if you wanna stop sleepin’ with me and be with him instead –“

“I do not!” Athos says, and his eyes fly up to Porthos’ face with the fearless fervour of utter certainty. “I do not!”

Porthos’ catches himself at that, stops pacing and smiles, a little guiltily. “Even if you wanted to do that,” he repeats, much calmer, “that’s no reason for him to drown himself in guilt. Why does he always have to turn love into somethin’ troublesome?”

Athos looks at him, mystified and full of awe for this strange, simple man who could not be more complex if he tried. “Because he is in love with you,” he says quietly, “and kissed me out of desperation.”

“I don’t believe that for one second,” Porthos growls, the conviction in his voice strong enough to force a mountain stream to change its course. “You didn’t see the way he cared for you when you had that fever – how he clung to you in his sleep. If the way he’s been lookin’ at you these last few weeks isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

Athos cannot allow that to be true, but he does not say anything in return.

Even if it was true – Aramis has loved Porthos for so much longer; what he feels for Athos could not possibly compare to the feelings he has for Porthos.

“You don’t believe me,” Porthos says, and steps closer to the bed, crouches down in front of Athos and looks up at him with weary fondness. “Even after all this time – you don’t believe me.”

The sadness in his voice makes Athos feel more guilty than anything else. “How can I?” he whispers. “Why would he love me when –“

“Because you’re you,” Porthos says curtly, and the unshakable persuasion in his voice takes Athos’ breath away. He stares down at the floor, unable to accept Porthos’ words. He is not worthy of such devotion, never has been. He is too weak, too twisted, and it would be much better for everyone involved if –

“No, listen to me.” Porthos’ voice cuts into Athos’ thoughts, its urgency shaking Athos to the core. “Please, at least this once – listen to me! I know you don’t wanna hear this, but this one time you gotta let me say it, _please_.”

Porthos takes Athos’ hands in his, and it is his warmth that gets through to Athos and keeps him in place, his presence that steadies him. “I joke about it all the time – that you and Aramis would never make it without me … but the thing is: Aramis and me – we wouldn’t make it without you either. We need you. We need your wit, and your plans, and you pretending not to care, when you _do_ , so much.” Porthos’ voice breaks over the last words, and Athos finally looks up at him, sees the affection and _trust_ in his eyes, and it hurts, in all the best ways.

“The first time you allowed us to touch you, the first time you smiled at us – I’ll never forget it, and I’ll bet my life on it that Aramis won’t, either. He says you shine so much brighter than most, even when you get lost in the shadows, and he’s _right_ about that.” Porthos goes to his knees when Athos tries to avoid his gaze once more, puts both of his hands to Athos’ cheeks and forces Athos to look at him. “We love you, because you’re you,” he repeats, earnest and impossibly honest. ”What else are we supposed to do?”


	8. Chapter 8

Porthos stays on his knees in front of Athos and looks up at him, not so much expectantly, but searching. He gently lets go of Athos’ cheeks and puts his hands on Athos’ shoulders instead, and holds on to him, waiting for Athos’ reaction to his words while Aramis sleeps behind them – his deep, steady breaths filling the silence that followed Porthos’ words.

The room starts to fall away from Athos while Porthos is looking at him – patient, always patient. The afternoon sun coming in through the window is still strong enough to cast them in a soft, muted light, and Athos can only gaze back at Porthos, too lost in his eyes to look away. For a very long moment he refuses to accept what Porthos has said to him, and gradually … very slowly, fails.

There was just too much honest tenderness in Porthos’ words to not believe in them, no matter how hard Athos might find it to do so. Porthos’ eyes are too sincere; they are dark and warm, and full of a hope so tentative that it tugs at Athos’ heart, tugs at it until it opens, slowly but surely – like the first flowers of spring, who unfurl their petals despite the frost still clinging to their leaves.

“There you go,” Porthos whispers, and he sounds exhausted, suddenly – lets go of Athos’ shoulders and lets his hands glide over the length of Athos’ arms before he puts them on the mattress, left and right of Athos’ thighs. He lets his head hang down and sighs, rests his forehead on Athos’ left knee. “Knew you’d get it eventually.”

Athos holds his breath, utterly out of his depth. This is … they have never done this before. Not once was Porthos the one who needed comforting; he is always the strong one, always ready to take Athos’ weight as well as his own.

It seems that the last few days have been too much, even for him.

Athos’ hands come up hesitantly, but the way his fingers twist into Porthos’ curls feels familiar and safe, and to watch Porthos’ shoulders relax, to watch him let go and melt into the touch is gratifying beyond compare.

“What do we do with him?” Porthos mumbles at length, and Athos smiles, entirely unsurprised at Porthos’ dogged resolve to care for his friends even when he is down on his knees with fatigue.

“What do you _want_ to do with him – besides strangling?” Athos asks softly. Because he is not so stupid to not have realized that Porthos wants Aramis just as much as Aramis wants Porthos.

Athos’ mind has had time to settle by now, and he is beginning to understand why things are as they are: why Porthos, who is usually so forward with his thoughts and feelings, has kept quiet for so long – why he did not tell Athos about his suspicions concerning Aramis’ worrisome behaviour.

It is simple, really: Porthos does not push.

He never pushes.

He did not push Athos after their first night together, although he clearly wanted more; he accepted it when Athos told him that it could not happen again, despite his disappointment – did not try to wheedle Athos into complaisance, but kept his peace, and remained Athos’ friend.

Porthos, who is so physical, who can hold his own against three men at once in a fistfight, and can force anyone into submission, refuses to abuse his strength to get his way aside the battlefield. Outside of his role as musketeer he is always careful to not bully anyone, neither with his fists, nor with his words.

Of course he did not tell Athos that he believed Aramis to be in love with him – Aramis clearly did not want him to do so. One might argue that it would have been better for all involved if Athos had known, but this line of thought does not present itself to someone like Porthos, who is loyal to a fault and prefers to let the worry eat him up from inside before he shares it with someone else and betrays a friend’s trust.

He never told Aramis about what happened between him and Athos until Aramis found out by himself. He kept quiet because Athos asked him to, despite his misgivings; in this case Aramis might not have asked it of Porthos – Athos does not think so – but even if he did not, he didn’t need to.

It was obvious that Aramis did not want either of them to know about his feelings, whatever they may be. He has run away often enough trying to hide them.

Athos’ fingers smooth down Porthos’ curls as if of their own volition, and he smiles, rather sadly. Porthos loves both of them so much, and it must have been so hard for him to keep it all bottled up, to keep away from Aramis, and not say a word to Athos that might cause him distress.

But now Athos has seen it, he _knows_ , and it is just not possible to turn a blind eye to it anymore.

Porthos’ love for Aramis was in every touch, in every word he spoke since they found Aramis today, no matter how hard Porthos tried to hide it from him; and it does not even frighten Athos all that much. He just wishes it were possible for all of them to just – but no. They couldn’t do that.

“I don’t know what I wanna do with him,” Porthos mumbles into Athos’ knee, turns his face to the side and rubs his cheek against Athos’ thigh in an absent-minded manner that chases a flock of butterflies through Athos’ stomach. “I’ve been angry with him for so long that the first thing that comes to mind is a thorough _spanking_.” He colours a little. “… But that’s hardly appropriate under the circumstances. The daft bugger is as helpless as a kitten right now.”

Athos clears his throat, intent on his course now that he had time to think. “Then you will have to wait until he feels up to it,” he says hoarsely. “I am sure he will not put up too much of a fight – all those scratches and bruises on him suggest otherwise.”

Porthos groans at that, and closes his eyes. “Don’t gimme any ideas – or I might just do it, you know. I fear that’s exactly what he needs.”

“Then do it,” Athos whispers, and his fingers feel a little shaky, all of a sudden, so he twists them tighter into Porthos’ curls, “take him in hand and make him feel better.” He hesitates and licks his lips. “It … worked on me, after all.”

Porthos’ eyes go wide and round at that, and he lifts his head off Athos’ lap and _blushes_ , all the way down to where his necklace disappears into the folds of his shirt. “You’d be alright with that?”

Athos evades his disbelieving gaze and swallows once more, the lump in his throat ever growing. “After what we have done to you, I imagine it does not matter all that much what I –“

“Yes,” Porthos interrupts him, his voice kind but firm, “it does. It always does.” The light in his eyes is strangely warm, considering the circumstances. “And I keep telling you: You’ve done nothing wrong, love. Nothing at all.”

“Well,” Athos says thickly, flustered by the endearment despite his best efforts, and he finally pulls his fingers out of Porthos’ hair, puts his hands down beside him – claws them into the bedding, “I do not expect you to deny yourself half your heart either.” He forces himself to look up and into Porthos’ eyes again, and what he finds there maybe should not make him go warm and tingly with pleasure anymore, not after all this time, but it does. He clears his throat. “I am sure your love will do him nothing but good.”

Porthos straightens at that. His eyes go sharp and attentive, while his hands spread over Athos’ thighs and grip them tightly. “What are you sayin'? You wanna take him into our bed?”

Athos might have known that Porthos would take the direct approach, and disregard all doubt or reservation simply because none occurred to him. Athos’ heart leaps up into his throat at the question, and he accomplishes the sad attempt of a smile, lopsided and entirely of kilter. “I am saying that … that I give you two my blessing.”

The light drops out of Porthos’ eyes, and he frowns. “No.”

Athos’ brows leap up on his forehead. “No?”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Porthos clarifies. “I’m not gonna bed the both of you, while you stand to the side and deny yourself. That would only make everythin’ worse – with him wantin’ you, and gettin’ me instead.”

“Porthos, please do not be a fool,” Athos says, almost testily. “He wants you – has probably wanted you ever since that night you made him believe he could not have you.”

Porthos blinks at him, and his frown deepens. “Yeah, that would be him all over, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees with a slight drawl. “It would.”

Porthos’ brows draw closer together, and the little crease between them that hints at profound cogitations makes an appearance. “You said you liked kissin’ him.”

Athos does _not_ like the direction this conversation is taking. He cannot fall into bed with both Aramis and Porthos – he simply cannot do that. So he smoothes his features and bans all fluttering hope from his chest. “It was … enjoyable, yes.”

This graceful answer inspires Porthos to a sudden grin, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “That good, eh?”

Athos feels annoyingly out of his depth. “Yes.”

Porthos startles him a little by moving up from the floor and standing, but he sits down again immediately – sits down on the edge of the bed beside Athos and takes Athos’ hands in-between his own. “You don’t want any more from him? Be honest.”

He sounds serious, and insistent, and Athos almost wishes he could bring himself to lie to him. He cannot, though, so he tries to conceal his honesty behind a generous layer of annoyance instead. “Oh, I want everything from him,” he says, his voice cold and sharp, “fidelity, for one. I do not expect to get it.”

Porthos smiles wistfully and nods in admission. “Probably not, no. He loves everyone, always has. And I wouldn’t wanna change that about him, either. He wouldn’t be him anymore if he stopped flirtin’ with everyone in sight.”

“It is not the flirting I mind,” Athos says. There is no sharpness left to his voice, and his shoulders droop. “At least not so very much.”

“Yeah, you’re a jealous one, I know,” Porthos whispers, and lifts Athos’ hands to his mouth, kisses their palms. He looks into Athos’ eyes, still with that same serious expression, still fully prepared to leave this decision to Athos, “What do you wanna do with him, love?”

Athos sighs and closes his eyes. They must do _something_ that much is evident. The current situation is intolerable, and he cannot ignore that Aramis is in pain. He just wishes it would be easier to leave all doubt behind and simply follow his heart. Granted, it pushed him into hell once, but then, it also pushed him into Porthos’ bed. Maybe it has learned and knows how to protect itself now – knows who to trust; and he _can_ trust Aramis, he knows that.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna take him into our bed?” Porthos asks carefully when Athos remains quiet for quite some time.

He sounds undeniably hopeful, and Athos flushes, and clears his throat. “I fear I am not sure about anything, anymore.”

The very idea is scandalous, of course. But so is his entire relationship to Porthos. So is Aramis, all by himself.

Athos’ wishes he could deny the fact that he is in love with Aramis, wishes he could pretend that he desires his body, and nothing else … but that is not the truth, not even close to it.

Porthos remains quiet and does not press on, because he never does, and Athos directs a searching look at him. “You want that, do you not? You want him in our bed.”

Porthos looks delightfully boyish for a moment, his eyes wide and honest, unable to hide anything from Athos. Then he twists his torso around to watch Aramis sleeping peacefully behind them – entirely unaware of their conversation. “I’m still thinkin’ about that kiss I never got, you see?”

Athos smiles, somewhat involuntarily. “I see.”

It might be a weakness that he is unable to deny Porthos anything – it might be one of his stronger points. Athos cannot be sure any more.

“I want you both to be happy, though,” Porthos adds after a long moment of silence. “I want that more than anythin’.”

Of course he does. Whatever else Athos might doubt, he’d never doubt _that_.

Porthos clears his throat when Athos does not say anything in return, releases Athos’ hands, and stands up. “Can you watch him for a moment? I gotta go and tell the Captain that we got a … a family emergency or somethin’ … maybe get some food while I’m at it.” He pats his stomach beneath the leather of his uniform. “Haven’t had anythin’ since breakfast – and I take it you haven’t either.”

“No,” Athos agrees. “It was not food that was on my mind these last few hours.”

“Well, it should've been,” Porthos tells him. “You can’t make a proper decision on an empty stomach.” He leans forward to brush a kiss to Athos’ lips, and lets his fingers glide through Athos’ hair as he straightens, rubs his fingertips across his scalp, eliciting warm shivers of pleasure all the way down his spine. “I’ll be quick about it, promise.”

Athos lets him go, and remains sitting on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, his hands clasped between his knees, gazing at the wooden floor.

Behind him, Aramis continues to sleep, free of any burden. Wakefulness will restore those to him, and Athos has a vague idea that despite Porthos’ conviction that all their troubles could be solved by taking Aramis into their bed, Aramis will not think so.

He would have been the first to suggest it, otherwise. Aramis has no morals to stop him that Athos would know of.

But while Athos can be certain what it is that is keeping _him_ back – fear, and guilt, and the crumbling remains of a faithful soul, reluctant to commit yet another sin – he has no idea why Aramis, usually the one to plunge headfirst into temptation, was ready to break his heart before he would open his mouth to let that sinful suggestions pour out.

Aramis breathes a little sound of content in his sleep and turns onto his side behind him, and Athos twists his hands together, lost in contemplation. Dusk settles into the room while he remains frozen in this position, trying to remember everything that happened since Aramis first came to know about the change in Athos’ and Porthos’ relationship – how he was so angry at first, and then quickly contrite … and how even in his happy moments he always seemed a little sad afterward.

Athos just does not understand why Aramis never said anything – surely he would entrust at least Porthos with his feelings: They have always been so close. There cannot be a safer confidante than Porthos, no matter who he is bedding … but then Porthos is bedding _Athos_. That is the whole dilemma right there.

Athos cannot deny that his relationship to Aramis has always been of a rather complicated nature, no matter how much they cherish each other. More often than not Athos’ outward reaction to Aramis’ adventures was contempt and disapproval.

Maybe Aramis thought that Athos would react to the suggestion of the three of them joining in bed the same way he always does when Aramis fails to control his desires: that Athos would not want him, that he would scorn and repulse the very idea – and maybe Aramis was right to think so. Not about the wanting, of course, because Athos _wants_ , he wants him so much – but about the rest.

Because that’s what Athos _does_ , isn’t it? He pushed Porthos away, at first, too. And while Porthos took Athos’ rejection in stride, kept his head high and his heart safe, somehow, Aramis … Aramis is different.

Porthos said that Aramis loves everyone, and that is certainly true – the downside being that Aramis wants, no _needs_ to be loved by everyone in turn, needs validation and affection and acceptance, and wilts when it is denied to him.

Being repulsed by Athos would have hurt him so deeply –

Athos’ thoughts come to a halt, and he gets up and stands, turns so he can look down at Aramis, gaze at his sleeping face. Aramis could never be faithful, neither to him, nor to Porthos – Athos is rather certain of that.

Athos wonders if it matters. He would still have Porthos, after all. Porthos is steady and loyal enough for the three of them.

Athos sighs and wipes his palm over his face, closes his eyes. He can no longer claim confusion about his feelings, and almost wishes that he could.

In any event, he must wait for Aramis to wake before making his decision. Because as exasperating as Aramis’ behaviour of the last few weeks – months even – might have been, he still has the right to say no to … anything that Athos and Porthos might suggest.

Athos sighs once more, and lowers his hand. When he opens his eyes, Aramis is staring at him.

For one terrifying moment, Athos contemplates hiding beneath the bed. He clears his throat. “Are you feeling better?”

Aramis moves to sit up, and Athos hastily steps closer to the bed and leans over Aramis, grips both his shoulders and keeps him down. “Please do not get up.”

Aramis relents, still staring, his eyes wide open in his pale face, confused and filled with something that could almost be terror. So Athos sits down by his side, leaves his hands on Aramis’ shoulders, and rubs his thumbs over Aramis’ warm skin. “There is no need for worry,” he says soothingly.

Aramis looks up at him, and his eyes flick over Athos’ face, hasty, not daring to rest anywhere for more than a second. “Porthos left?” he asks at length, sounding lost and impossibly young.

Athos feels a little bit like crying.

“To get us food,” he answers, as gently as possible. “He will be back soon, I promise.”

Aramis throws his arm across his eyes at that, and laughs, entirely devoid of humour. “Oh God what have I done?”

Athos does not believe that an answer to this question is expected of him, but he tries to give one, nevertheless. “Only what you wanted to, I hope.”

Aramis stills, and shifts his arm higher, looks at Athos from beneath his crooked elbow, a touch of suspicion in his dark eyes. “You’re not angry?”

The very fact that Aramis seems to be just as confused as Athos was when Porthos failed to yell at him fills Athos with a calm security he could never have acquired otherwise.

Athos lets go of Aramis’ shoulders, puts his hands in his lap, and sits up a little straighter. “I am not angry,” he confirms.

Aramis promptly evades his gaze in favour of staring at the sheet covering his torso. “Ah, I see. You didn’t expect any better of me anyway.”

Athos almost bristles at that. It would be so easy to lose patience now, to hide behind anger and storm out the door. That kind of behaviour would not solve anything, though, and Athos refuses to live with a lead weight of helpless wrath and longing in his gut for the rest of his life.

He has done that for so long already. He is weary of it.

So he endeavours to remain calm, and unruffled, and wonders vaguely why it is that the three of them seem to take turns in being as foolish as humanly possible.

Granted, Porthos seems to be on top of everything most of the time, but even he was sadly lacking in omniscience concerning Aramis’ volatile feelings.

Athos does not blame him. There can be no doubt that Aramis is the most foolish of them all.

Athos levels a stern look at Aramis, when what he really desires to do is to take him into his arms and hold him. “Whatever else I may have expected of you, I certainly did not expect you to kiss me,” he says, and the words come out smooth and light, betray nothing of the storm gathering inside him. “But since I had little to no idea that I would welcome such a kiss, I obviously do not pay sufficient attention to emotions in general for that to matter.”

Aramis turns his head back around, and blinks up at him, visibly overwhelmed by this feat of eloquence. “What?”

“You seem to labour under the misapprehension that you somehow managed to kiss me without my consent or participation,” Athos tells him archly. “When I in fact gave my consent by returning the kiss – and you cannot have failed to notice that I did return it … eagerly, even.”

It is surprisingly easy to say the words out loud and admit to Aramis what Athos still has not fully admitted to himself. It is easy to say them, because Aramis needs to hear them, and Athos has always been better at caring for others than he has been at caring for himself.

Aramis swallows, and Athos watches the blood creep into his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Athos graces him with an indulgent smile that surprises them both. “Apparently, you are the only one.”

Porthos chooses that moment to return, carrying a variety of food in his arms, and a beleaguered expression on his face. “The Captain says we have until tomorrow to get our sh-“ He stops in the open door when he sees that Aramis is awake, and flounders, visibly ruffled.

Athos can feel Aramis go cold with dread beside him, and wonders how Aramis can possibly fail to see that it is worry, not any kind of animosity that has checked Porthos’ tongue.

“You feelin’ better?” Porthos asks then, closes the door, and deposits the food he brought on the window sill before he steps closer to the bed. “How long have you been awake?”

Aramis stares at him as though he was a ghost.

“Porthos is not angry with you either,” Athos supplies, when the silence outlasts his patience, turns his head and looks at Porthos to answer his question, “He has just woken up.”

Porthos smiles then, grateful and relieved, leans forward and gently strokes the hair out of Aramis’ face. “Did you sleep well?”

Aramis turns his face away at that, and closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry for what I did to you.”

Porthos looks at Athos, honestly confused. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

Athos feels inclined to laugh. “The kiss. You remember? I told you about it.”

Porthos’ reaction is a heavy frown, and Athos gets smoothly out of the way, watches Porthos throw his hat into a corner and sit down beside Aramis in Athos’ place.

“What do you think you did to me, eh?” Porthos asks Aramis, his voice soothing and calm. “I wasn’t even there. You’re not makin’ any sense.” He bends over Aramis and grabs his upper arms, gentle but determined. “Look at me.”

He pulls Aramis toward him, and Aramis’ throat escapes a helpless sound. Instead of looking at Porthos as requested, he grips the front of Porthos’ uniform, and hides his face between its folds. “I didn’t mean to – I promise.”

“Yeah, you said that before,” Porthos rumbles, lets go of Aramis arms and hugs him to his chest instead. “And I told you that it’s alright. You wanna go over that whole conversation again? I thought you’d been too drunk to remember most of it. Are you still drunk? Do you need to sleep it off some more?”

“No.” Aramis sounds almost petulant, and Porthos strokes his hand down Aramis’ back, fingers spread wide.

“So you remember how I told you it was alright?”

Athos smiles, despite himself. It is curious so see Porthos’ masterful handling of a recalcitrant lover directed at someone else – curious, and wonderful. Athos realizes with some confusion that he enjoys witnessing it; he enjoys Porthos’ gentle manner, and the way his voice goes rough with emotion, and warm, enjoys it whether he is the recipient or not.

“But it’s not! It’s not alright,” Aramis whispers against Porthos’ skin, clearly shaken by Porthos’ words, but unable to comprehend them. “You belong with each other! I had no business kissing him!” A shudder runs though him, and he clings to Porthos, pushes into their embrace with his whole body. “I’m not going to do it again, I promise. I can – I can control myself now.”

The last words come out very quiet, make him sound beaten and tired, and Porthos turns his head to look at Athos. Athos looks back, unable to avert his gaze.

“You wanna kiss Athos again?” Porthos asks, very carefully.

“Of course I do,” Aramis replies, hushed, but clear enough for his voice to travel to Athos’ ears. “I always want what I can’t have.”

Athos flushes, feels a delicious heat spread inside of him – gratified by Aramis’ words despite himself – and bites his tongue. He does not want to interfere. Not yet. Porthos is doing fine by himself.

“Why do you think you can’t have him?” Porthos asks, just as careful and gentle as before, his hand still gliding up and down on Aramis’ naked skin.

Just watching them makes Athos feel helpless with affection.

“Because he loves _you_ ,” Aramis says, sounds strangely matter of fact. “Because you’re so good for each other that there’s no room left for me any more. And that’s – that’s alright! I mean … you’re both happy, and I love that you are, I do, it feels so good seeing you together – how you … how you almost made him laugh that time I found you kissing in the stables, it was … I’d never seen him light up like that before.”

Aramis leans his forehead against Porthos chest, and Athos can see that he has closed his eyes, that he is smiling. “And _you_ ,” he whispers to Porthos, his voice soft, and reverent, “I should’ve known that you’d be so good at making him happy.” Aramis’ hands glide over Porthos’ chest over the fabric of his shirt; up and down, again and again, as if he is trying to read him, trying to memorize how it feels to be close to him – because he’ll never have that opportunity again. “I should’ve known that it was more to you than just a roll in the hay, that you’d give everything to him, not just your body.” His fingers grip Porthos’ shirt, and he takes a deep breath, shudders when he releases it from his lungs. “I’m so sorry that I kissed him.”

Athos comes to the conclusion that if he continues to bite his tongue and stays out of this conversation, it will spiral along the same irritating course for the rest of the evening, possibly the night as well – and quite certainly end in tears. He can feel them bite at the back of his lids already.

“I have a suggestion,” he says, a bit roughly and dispels the silence that has fallen after Aramis’ heartrending monologue.

Porthos promptly looks around at him, and his eyes are too bright, and wet, betraying that soft heart of his once more. He waits silently for Athos to speak, while Aramis remains as he is, clinging to Porthos, his forehead resting against the warm skin of Porthos’ chest.

“What Aramis and I did,” Athos says, his voice deliberately cold, and lifts his hand to keep Porthos from opening his mouth and interrupting, “what we did, was … it was dishonourable. We betrayed your trust and affection, Porthos, both of us.”

Porthos, stares at him, aghast, and Athos glares back, tries to make him understand that everything is indeed well, and Athos not at all meaning what he is saying. Not anymore.

Porthos blinks, relaxes almost immediately, and waits for him to continue, bemused, but trusting.

Athos clears his throat before he speaks again, not questioning that what he intends to do is right, but nervous, nevertheless. “Since I am the one who is in fact – is in fact …“ He realizes somewhat belatedly that this speech will force him to say out loud what he for months managed to keep firmly fenced in by the confinements of his mind, and pales a little. There is no sense in stopping now, though. It needs to be said anyway.

So he ploughs on, regardless of his heart’s panicked fluttering. “Since I am the one who … who is bound to Porthos in … in love and affection, my sins weigh far heavier.” Athos bites his tongue when he has finished, and tries to ignore the way Porthos is grinning at him now, mouthing the words “love and affection” and looking ridiculously pleased while doing so.

Athos clears his throat once more. “So it would be only fair if Porthos kissed Aramis, too.”

Aramis’ head snaps up at that, and he stares at Athos the way Porthos did just moments before. “What?”

Porthos does not stare any more. Porthos looks surprised, yes, but the smile in his eyes is warm, knowing, and almost proud. Athos feels as though his chest must burst, but his face remains passive. “You do not think it would be fair?” he asks Aramis, adding a layer of polite interest to his voice. “You know of some other way to reimburse him?”

All the colour seems to drain from Aramis’ features. “No.”

Athos performs an eloquent hand gesture that could very well mean, _there you go, then_ , but just as well, _you may kiss him now_.

Aramis does not move a muscle, seemingly frozen in astonishment, and Porthos carefully clears his throat. His face tells Athos very fluently that he appreciates his intentions, but does not at all approve of his tactics. “I’m not sayin’ that I don’t wanna kiss Aramis,” he states, a bit hoarsely, “because I do. But there’s really no need for any kind of _reimbursement_. You two act as though you’ve stolen somethin’ from me, when the truth is –“

“No, Athos is right,” Aramis interrupts him, just like Athos knew he would. You can always count on Aramis to focus on nonsensical little details and lose sight of the grand total. Athos believes he might yet come to love that about Aramis.

He feels just the slightest bit guilty for using this kind of trick on his friend, but that cannot be helped now. If left to his own devices, Aramis would have just kept saying that he was sorry, and not done anything about it. This way he can at least get the one kiss from Porthos they both desire so ardently … maybe a few more if Athos’ plan does not fall through.

Athos does not think it will.

Aramis looks ready to break, and Porthos was always good at putting things together again, one jagged piece at a time. Athos almost looks forward to watching him do it.

“He is?” Porthos asks in reaction to Aramis’ statement that Athos is right, his contorted brows a beautiful hint at his own opinion. He sounds audibly sceptical as well – but Aramis nods, intent on the goal Athos has planted in his mind, “Yes.”

“You would be even,” Athos supplies helpfully.

Porthos shoots him a dirty look before returning his attention on Aramis. “No, Aramis, listen, this is nonsense – you don’t have to feel like you owe me anythin’. I don’t wanna force you into –“

“You don’t want to kiss me after all?” Aramis asks, sounding _heartbroken_ , the look on his face one of sad resignation; and that’s it, that does it – that is too much, even for Porthos.

He grabs Aramis’ face between his hands and pulls him up, while simultaneously bending down towards him in one beautiful, fluid motion that leaves even Athos breathless.

He can only imagine what it does to Aramis – does not have to imagine, actually.

Athos hears Aramis moan as Porthos claims his mouth, watches the way his lashes droop and slowly close, as his body goes limp and pliable the second their lips touch – eagerly parted already. It is stunning, really, how Aramis looks so slight suddenly, almost lost against Porthos’ broad chest, mostly naked but for his undergarments, while Porthos is still fully clothed. It is beautiful to watch how Aramis gradually loses all restraint and spreads out in genuine pleasure the longer their kiss continues.

Athos can pinpoint the moment when Aramis loses track of his surroundings, when he forgets _why_ he came to kiss Porthos, and only knows that he _is_ – that he is finally kissing the man he loves more than anything. Aramis’ arms come up then, loop around Porthos’ neck as he climbs into Porthos’ lap, intent on getting as close to him as possible.

Porthos immediately breaks the kiss to help him, moves further onto the bed and puts his hands on Aramis’ hips to steady him – and Aramis whines, surges forward and nips at Porthos’ bottom lip, greedily licks his way back into his mouth.

He is straddling Porthos’ lap now, and there is not an inch of space left between them. Porthos has put his arms around Aramis’ torso and is holding him close, always so good at offering warmth and security … and in comparison to Aramis, he is being very quiet.

Athos is not surprised at that, not even slightly.

He listens to Aramis’ moans with a faint blush creeping its way up his chest, hears him sigh and whine and pant, and wonders vaguely when reality will dawn on his friend once more, and throw him into new agonies of guilt – this time for betraying Athos.

Looking at Aramis now, it will probably take a while yet.

Aramis is thoroughly lost, Athos can see it. He is entirely unable to avert his gaze, and Athos cannot deny that the sight in front of him arouses him. With all his planning, he never took into consideration how watching his two friends kiss would make _him_ feel.

Aramis looks beautiful like this, defenceless and open, and so happy to be close to Porthos, whose face is a perfect picture of bone-deep content, just as happy as Aramis, but in a quieter way – far more aware of what is going on.

Athos is not surprised by that, either. Porthos seldom lets go entirely, always keeps himself tethered to reality so he can make sure that … that no one gets hurt.

The realization is strangely surprising. Surely, it should have occurred to Athos sooner that he needed Porthos’ care and protection … that he will continue to do so.

Athos swallows as the thought crosses his mind, and steps closer to the bed. He is loath to interrupt his friends, but he cannot allow this to continue without knowing what Aramis wants – what he truly desires – and letting him know that he can have it, whatever it may be, no matter how much it might frighten Athos.

They will make it work somehow; they always do.

With that thought firmly in mind, Athos takes off his boots and uniform jacket. He might as well be comfortable during the impending discussion, figuring it may take a while.

Aramis always picks the strangest moments to be obstinate.

For a moment Athos remains standing, looks down at Aramis and Porthos, close enough to touch them now; and as he sees Aramis’ hips move forward, just a fraction, seeking friction and relief, or maybe just more of that glorious heat that Porthos’ body offers, Athos involuntarily clears his throat, his blood instantly aflame.

Aramis freezes, as does Porthos.

Athos fears he has managed to do precisely the wrong thing.

He watches Aramis draw back from the kiss, slowly, and with closed eyes, as if he is trying to savour the moment – believing it to be over for good, forever lost to him in all but memory.

Porthos is the one who opens his eyes and looks at Athos, a little apprehensive at first, and then quietly grateful when Athos offers him a smile.

Aramis’ eyes remain shut. “You shouldn’t have let me do that,” he says, very softly, and his voice sounds like that of a man condemned to spend the rest of his life in solitude, wistful and painfully sober all at once, “It’s so much worse now that I know the taste of both of you.”

Athos does not know if he should be glad that the sun has nearly sunk below the horizon by now, that the dusk in the room does not allow him to see every detail of Aramis’ expression. Listening to his voice alone is sufficient to inform him of the state of Aramis’ emotions though, and something snaps inside of Athos, makes him forget all his carefully laid out arguments.

He sets his knee upon the mattress right next to Porthos, while Aramis’ words sink into his mind and drag all his doubts with them into the deep. His heart beats steadily inside his chest, apparently very much at ease with what he is about to do, while his wits scramble to adapt to the sudden change to his plan, frightened by its abruptness.

“Is it?” he asks, and puts his hand beneath Aramis’ chin, very gently, and turns Aramis’ head towards him with just the slightest pressure of his fingertips. “Is it really so very bad?”

Aramis nods. “Yes,” he says, and the word leaves his throat as though it was wrenched out of him by force. “You know … you know how I am! How do you expect me to keep away when I know how _good_ –“ He stops and bites his lip, and finally opens his eyes to look up at Athos. “No. I made a promise, and I … I will keep it.”

Porthos lifts his right hand at that, and touches Athos’ knee, silently urging him to speak.

“If you are intent on keeping your promise,” Athos says slowly, all the while looking down into Aramis’ eyes, “I have to acknowledge your decision, of course. I do not believe it to be a wise one though.” He leans down while speaking the words, whispers the last of them against Aramis’ lips, parted in wonder, and claims Aramis’ mouth in a tender kiss.

It does not stay tender for very long.

At first Aramis’ lips move against Athos’ so lightly that their touch is almost platonic, innocent and sweet. Then Porthos’ grip on Athos’ knee abruptly becomes firmer, and Athos groans as it reminds him that Porthos is watching them just like Athos was watching Aramis and Porthos.

The resultant heat spreading out into Athos’ body is delicious – disquieting in its intensity.

Aramis takes a hasty breath, releases it with a stunned little “ _oh_ ” of comprehension, and very tentatively deepens their kiss. Strangely enough, Athos is the one to pounce, who grips Aramis’ shoulders and bears down on him, pushes him onto his back and –

“Easy now,” Porthos rumbles beside them, and Athos relaxes, just a little, and strokes over Aramis’ skin instead of clawing into it.

Aramis makes a choked noise and throws his arms around Athos, pulls him down on top of him and sucks Athos’ tongue into his mouth, wanton, and greedy … unrestrained.

Athos falls into him the way he used to fall into bottle after bottle of wine, conscious of what he is doing, and yet unable to stop. He is not destroying himself with this, though, and neither is he trying to forget. _This_ Athos wants to remember. He closes his eyes and revels in the taste of Aramis, revels in his warmth and the ease of them together like this.

Their kiss is not tentative at all, neither gentle nor careful, but it still fills Athos with the same warm affection he feels while kissing Porthos, the same heady pleasure. The realization makes him smile, and he rubs his thumbs over Aramis’ warm skin, kisses him a little deeper still, and then releases his mouth with a sound so indecent that it would make him blush if his face wasn’t so flushed already.

Porthos makes a rumbling sound of contentment next to them, his hand still warm and heavy on Athos’ knee, and when Aramis opens his lashes to look up at them, he does so with a dazed expression on his face – eyes glazed over and unfocused, his mouth slack and red from kissing.

Athos has to bite his lip to keep himself in check and refrain from immediately kissing him again.

“Tryin’ to get even, eh?” Porthos mumbles into Athos’ ear, and Athos’ mouth twists into a grin, delighted as usual by Porthos’ wit and sense of humour, despite the hasty beating of his heart inside his chest. He is terrified of being in love once more, and yet utterly helpless to prevent it.

Aramis blinks up at them, is still lying stretched out on the bed, visibly overwhelmed.

“He looks good like this,” Porthos comments, sotto-voce.

“There was never any doubt about _that_ ,” Athos replies, just as quiet, allows himself to be steadied by Porthos' calm acceptance.

Aramis finally finds his voice. “What,” he licks his lips, suddenly remembers that he’s shirtless, and draws the blanket over himself, as if he had any virtue left to lose, “what are you doing?”

Athos and Porthos share a glance.

“Kissin’ makes him slow,” Porthos concludes.

“Athos,” Aramis specifies, and he sounds genuinely upset, “what are you doing? I’m going to … this is going to ruin everything, you must know that!”

Athos and Porthos share another glance, and this time Athos is the one to speak up, “Do you want this – do you want us, not just Porthos, but … but myself as well?”

Aramis closes his eyes with a pained expression and turns his head to the side. “You must know that I do.”

Athos nods to himself as relief spreads out into his blood, and finalizes his decision. “Very well then.”

“I could never forgive myself for forcing you apart,” Aramis whispers into the cushion beneath his cheek.

“You’re bein’ overdramatic,” Porthos tells him, and grabs Aramis left shoulder while Athos grabs his right, and they pull him up together.

“I thought you would admire my resolution to take responsibility for once,” Aramis says, his voice caught somewhere between a pout and honest confusion. “I thought … I thought Athos would –“

Athos kisses him again, just to shut him up. Next to them, Porthos chuckles. “That’s it, that’s very good.”

Athos relinquishes Aramis’ lips, and straightens, pushes the hair out of his face with his free hand. “You thought I would -?”

Aramis is staring at him with that same dazed expression again, and Athos cannot but smile, and cup his cheek with his right. “You usually have more faith in my plans.”

Aramis’ eyes flicker into focus again, and he looks from one to the other, his expression still troubled, too vulnerable. “For how … for how long … do you want me?”

Athos can only stare at him, and wonders if this is what it feels like for Porthos, when Athos himself asks such a question, and does not allow himself to be loved. He hopes it does not, but suspects it hurts just as much.

“Oh, you silly fool,” Porthos grumbles, clearly hardened to such questions, just as Athos had feared. He leans in and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ forehead, “what do you think, eh?”

If Aramis has looked dazed before, he looks positively thunderstruck now. “But you – but I –“

“For as long as you want us,” Athos tells him, simple and smooth, unable to voice what’s really in his heart. “We can discuss the details tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, and gets up after depositing another kiss on Aramis head. “Now we eat.”

Aramis stares at Porthos while he moves towards the fireplace and busies himself with lighting it. “Eat?” he echoes, thoroughly dumbfounded.

“You know how he is,” Athos drawls and moves further onto the bed, makes himself comfortable and crosses his ankles in front of him. He feels like he might shake apart any moment now, and only Porthos’ presence in the room prevents him from doing so.

There’s a curious mixture of happiness and fear spreading inside of him, and he wants to draw Aramis into his arms, yet does not dare to.

“Yeah,” Porthos says over his shoulder, and his voice works itself into Athos’ chest and dispels at least part of his nerves, “contrary to you two, I don’t believe in subsistin’ on love and wine alone – I like to eat.”

Athos takes a deep breath and gets himself under control. “Deplorably sensible,” he says, while watching Aramis from the corner of his eye, “you have no romance in your soul.”

Porthos gets up from his knees once the fire crackles to his satisfaction, and turns around. “Are we doin’ impressions now? You want me to do one of you?”

Athos smiles and gets a kiss for his troubles, hears Aramis take a hasty breath beside them. Athos turns his head to look at him as soon as Porthos straightens to strip out of his uniform jacket, and sees that Aramis is staring at him with an awed expression, licking his lips. “May I – would you let me –“

“Of course,” Athos says gently, touched by Aramis’ restraint, and smiles at him – allows himself to be honest, “I want you to.”

There is a sudden light in Aramis’ eyes, an instant reward for Athos’ honesty, and he goes up onto his knees, moves as close to Athos as he can, and leans forward, tangles his fingers in Athos’ hair – and kisses him.

Athos does not believe that he has ever been kissed with such reverence. He tries to respond in kind, reaches out to touch Aramis, strokes over his shoulders and down his arms, until his hands come to rest on Aramis’ forearms, fingers spread wide over his skin, while his thumbs rub back and forth over the insides of Aramis’ wrists.

Athos cannot be quite sure how he suddenly comes to lie on his back, Aramis above him, still not so much devouring as worshipping his mouth, but he _is_ rather certain that at least half of the exasperation in Porthos’ voice is pretend when he hears him speak up behind them, “Will you stop that? I said we’re gonna eat first.”

Athos feels Aramis grin into the kiss, and they part, slowly, with many light brushes of their lips, ere they are both upright again, and Athos sees Aramis smile without reserve for the first time in what feels like months. “We should listen to him,” Athos drawls, and Aramis only smiles wider, the light in his eyes so bright as to be almost blinding.

“As you wish.”


	9. Chapter 9

So they eat. Porthos has brought sufficient food for the three of them, and no argument that Aramis or Athos bring forth sways him in his conviction that they should eat most of it.

“I had a proper breakfast at the garrison,” he grumbles, pushing chunks of bread at Athos and more or less throwing cheese at Aramis’ head, “and I’m willin’ to bet my hat that neither of you had anythin’ of the sort.”

Both of them have to admit that he is right, and allow him to ply them with food until he is satisfied that no one will swoon from lack of sustenance in the near future. Athos could almost convince himself that matters have returned to how they were before – before he fell into bed with Porthos, and Aramis broke his heart believing they were lost to him.

But the way Porthos’ fingers brush against his when he hands him food, and Aramis’ proximity while they eat – their thighs touching from hip to knee as they sit on the edge of the bed – it’s not at all like it was before. The three of them were always close, yes, always touching … but not like this.

Once they’ve had their fill, and Porthos allows them to stop eating, the change becomes more evident yet. Aramis did not bother to dress himself for their repast, the fire Porthos kindled in the hearth allowing him to lounge on the bed in just his undergarments – and since Athos has stripped out of his boots and jacket some time before, he now takes off his trousers as well to sit back down next to Aramis at the head of the bed.

Porthos watches him with a delighted grin, while Aramis lowers his gaze and does not seem to know where to look. Athos cannot make up his mind whether he should be confused by this unexpected bashfulness, or take it as an occasion for his heart to further swell with affection for this absurd man.

“Watch,” he tells him quietly, and when Aramis directs a startled glance at him, Athos nods towards the fireplace, towards Porthos, who is taking off his clothing as well, unhurried and graceful as ever.

Athos watches Aramis watching Porthos, enjoys the way that Aramis’ eyes widen, how he swallows and allows his lips to part, enraptured. The sight of Aramis in this state makes Athos feel rather accomplished, and he leans back against the bed’s headrest, watches Porthos as well – is rewarded with the sight of Porthos stripping out of his shirt, the firelight dancing across his shoulders and down his arms.

Porthos grins when he catches them staring, comfortable in his skin as ever, but slightly flushed nevertheless. There is not a shred of hesitation in the way he moves towards the bed, yet he pauses next to it, seems to contemplate the logistics of the three of them fitting into it with slightly pursed lips.

Aramis’ bed is undoubtedly the biggest between the three of them, a little wider than Porthos’, and given that they do not waste any space, they should fit into it quite perfectly.

Athos looks up at Porthos when he remains standing for what Athos deems an unreasonable amount of time, and lifts his brow. “Is there a problem?”

“Nah,” Porthos answers immediately – and lifts his hand to Athos’ neck, touches the bandages still swathed around it. “I just thought it might be about time to pull the stitches.”

Aramis who had seemed downright rooted to the mattress for the last few minutes at last moves closer to Athos and puts a hand to his cheek, makes him turn his head, all caring attention. “Please tell me you’ve at least cleaned the wound while I –“

“While you were playin’ chicken?” Porthos interrupts him gruffly. “Course I cleaned the wound.”

Aramis does not say anything in return, but bites his lip and looks down into his lap. Athos watches guilt rise to his face, and he lifts his hand to put it over the one Aramis has placed on his cheek. “Will you pull the stitches for me, now that you are here?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, gratefulness and relief mingling in his voice, and moves to stand up – stopped by Porthos, who leans forward and plants a heavy hand on Aramis’ shoulder, keeping him down.

“I’m gonna get your stuff,” Porthos says, and bends still a little lower, so he can brush a kiss to Aramis’ lips and take the sting out of his previous words. “You take his bandages off.”

With that he straightens, turns around and moves towards the little chest were Aramis keeps his healing supplies when they aren’t out on a mission.

Athos watches the way Aramis’ eyes follow Porthos around the room, and wonders absent-mindedly how long it will take for the childlike awe to move out of Aramis’ gaze and be replaced by the happy realization that this is indeed happening and he need no longer be afraid of being left out.

“Aramis,” he says, gently drawing Aramis’ attention back to himself, and gestures towards his neck. “Take off my bandages?”

Aramis bites his lip and nods, and Athos turns towards him and lifts his chin, looks at Aramis from underneath his lashes. “Thank you.”

The way Aramis touches him is hesitant, and Athos believes that he can detect a slight tremor in Aramis’ fingers as they untangle the bandages from around his neck. “What is it?” he asks softly. “What is wrong?”

Aramis’ eyes fly up to his face, and there is so much startled amazement accumulating in his features, marvelling at the fact that Athos not only noticed his nervousness but _asked_ him about it, that it coaxes a smile out of Athos. “Tell me?”

Aramis swallows and evades his gaze for a moment – then he sighs, and his shoulders droop. “It’s just that … I believe Porthos should be the one doing this.”

Athos’ eyes widen in sudden understanding, and he blushes. “I see.”

Aramis stares down at his lap, flushing as well. “Yes.”

Porthos has returned to the bed by now, and he crouches down beside them, frowning in bemusement. “Why?”

They both lift their heads to look at him, but neither of them answers.

Porthos’ frown deepens with mild confusion, overlaid with fondness. “Seriously. Tell me: why?”

Athos gently clears his throat, aware that Aramis is still too overwhelmed by recent developments to speak up. “Because you’re the one who … claimed me first.”

Porthos’ features are immediately awash with emotion – sudden understanding mingles with content, briefly touched by pride, and finally bleeds into exasperation.

“You aren’t cattle, Athos,” he says gruffly. “I can’t put my brand on you and claim you as mine – it doesn’t work that way.” He rises and leans forward to kiss Athos, before levelling a stern glance at Aramis. “Don’t treat him like cattle.” He leans over the bed to kiss him as well, puts his hand on Aramis’ neck to hold him still while he coaxes his lips open.

Athos watches them, unable to stop a wave of warm affection from spreading inside him, his fingers itching to touch them both. He holds them clasped in his lap when Porthos breaks the kiss and straightens – folds them tightly while Porthos hands Aramis his supplies, pushes them into Aramis’ unresisting fingers, “Just take care of him.”

Silence follows, as it so often does when Porthos breaks the infinitely complicated layers of the world down for them to look at from a different angle, and after a moment of hesitation Aramis does as he is told.

His hands are much steadier now that he has Porthos’ permission – for Athos is rather sure that Aramis focused on that aspect of Porthos statement rather than the rest of it – and he makes quick work of undressing the wound.

“It looks very good,” he says quietly, and Athos’ eyes close in sudden pleasure when Aramis drags his fingertips over the stitches – touches the mark he left on him for the first time without any barrier between them.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sounding amused as well as utterly satisfied. “It looks very good.”

Athos flushes to the roots of his hair. Sometimes he forgets how very perceptive Porthos is – that just because he looks at human nature and seldom sees anything too complicated for him to disturb his tranquillity, it does not mean that he fails to appreciate its intricacies.

Porthos knew exactly why both Aramis and Athos hesitated to let Aramis touch Athos’ neck. Apparently, Porthos desired to witness what would happen once they overcame their reluctance.

Athos might have known.

He bites his lip to keep in a moan when Aramis keeps stroking his neck, gentle and infinitely careful. Hopefully, Aramis is aware of what he is doing, and being a tease quite on purpose. Because if this is merely Aramis being … being _affectionate_ …

“Porthos, hold his head, please – I don’t want to hurt him.”

There is not even the suggestion of seduction in Aramis’ voice, and Athos opens his eyes to see a gaze of shy fondness directed at him. Aramis has clearly decided to drive him mad by being as contrary and unexpected about this as possible.

Next to the bed, Porthos chuckles – obviously laughing at the both of them. “Yeah, I’ll hold his head,” he says, and his voice is so warm and pleased that Athos feels an answering smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“You are a cock,” he tells Porthos, far fonder than intended.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Porthos whispers into his ear as he climbs onto the bed and takes his place behind Athos, spreads his knees and pulls Athos to his chest. “Such _frustration_.”

Athos opens his mouth to retort, and Aramis touches his stitches once more, effectively locking Athos’ voice inside his throat. “Please keep quiet for a moment.”

Behind him, Porthos huffs in amusement, but he does lift his hands to frame Athos’ head between them. “Go ahead, I’ll keep him still for you.”

His voice alone is sufficient in filling Athos with a sense of security so strong that it renders him somewhat weak – and when Aramis lifts a fine pair of scissors to his neck, and cuts his stitches, he goes utterly boneless in a matter of heartbeats.

It just feels so good, with Porthos’ sturdy heat at his back, keeping him upright, while Aramis’ deft fingers stroke over his neck, intermingled with the sensation of the thread being tugged from his skin. There could be no safer place than being trapped between his friends like this, and Athos knows it.

Yet he tries to keep his mind in reach, does not want to drift and succumb – not now. He is not ready to give himself up to Aramis like that – for one he does not know how Aramis will react, and then he does not really … he doesn’t want it to be like that, tonight. Tonight is about Aramis, about what _he_ needs.

So Athos holds on to his wits, allows Aramis to tend to his wound and swathe the cut in healing salve before he dresses it once more. Athos thanks him afterwards, and watches Aramis restore his supplies. When Aramis returns to the bed Athos sits up – smiles when Porthos holds on to his shoulders and spreads his fingers, rubs his thumbs back and forth over the fabric of Athos’ shirt.

Aramis remains standing next to the bed, just like Athos thought he might. The kind of work Aramis just performed for him surely gave him time to stop and think about what it is they are about to do. Athos understands why he still hesitates, even though he would not have expected it of him – of everyone else, yes, but not of Aramis.

Athos never would have thought Aramis might be the one who needed to be persuaded into the kind of arrangement they have not quite fallen into yet; but since he is, Athos believes it would be wrong to push him any further than he already did. “Porthos and I would very much like to stay with you tonight,” he says, his voice carefully even, “but if you wish it, we will leave you.”

Aramis looks startled for a heartbeat or two. Evidently he thought that he would not have any say in the matter, and Athos begins to understand that Aramis generally offers his body too freely to voice protest now – and promptly feels guilty for having accosted him the way he did.

Porthos does not. “But only if you don’t start blamin’ yourself again as soon as we’re gone,” he says. “If that’s what you intend to do, I’m stayin’ ‘ere.”

Aramis smiles, seemingly unable not to when faced with Porthos’ trusty common sense. “I have to admit that I would quite like to … spend the night with you. It’s just that I’m rather sure that I shouldn’t.” His smile turns bright and brittle. “I truly appreciate that you are ready to do this for me, but I don’t think that I should take advantage of your kind offer.” He gestures at them, lying together on his bed, and his smile softens, and turns warm with honest affection. “You present quite the perfect picture as you are – my addition would only … tarnish it, I fear.”

Athos understands what he is saying, and once again wonders how Porthos can bear to hear such speeches and offer nothing but loving patience in return. He looks up at Aramis with all the calm assuredness he can muster, hoping that his eyes exclusively transport those emotions he wishes Aramis to see. “Whatever happens,” he says evenly, “should Porthos and I ever part in a manner other than friendly, it will be through no fault of yours. I hope that is understood. Please do not deny yourself what you want from misplaced feelings of fear and guilt. You are not guilty of anything we would blame you for.”

Aramis’ mouth quirks into a little grin at that, entirely involuntarily, and Athos amends his generous statement, “At least not anything concerning _our_ relationship.”

Aramis winks at him, highly appreciative of this mild rebuke – and sighs. “It would be selfish of me to –“

“Will you get it into your thick skull that we want this just as much as you do?” Porthos growls at him. “Come to bed right this instance!”

Again, Aramis looks startled, and he lets his gaze drop to the floor, ere he directs a questioning glance at Athos.

“It is quite true,” Athos admits, trying to ignore the warmth spreading in his belly. “I believe I had told you so already – but I might have expressed myself too clumsily for you to –“

Aramis leans down, suddenly, places both hands on Athos shoulders and interrupts him with a kiss, feather-light and unbearably sweet.

Behind them, Porthos huffs. “This back and forth is drivin’ me to distraction.”

His grumbling makes Athos smile into the kiss, and he reaches up to mirror Aramis’ touch and put his hands on his shoulders as well. He notices Porthos moving behind him, but does not break the kiss – only does so when he realizes that Porthos has left the bed, and he hears him speak once more.

“Get into bed, Aramis. We’re just gonna _sleep_ for heaven’s sake – what do you think is gonna happen after the day we’ve had?”

With that he manhandles Aramis onto the mattress and into Athos’ arms before he steps over to the wardrobe to get a second blanket. For a moment, Athos and Aramis lie face to face, unsure about what to do – then they both seem to decide at once that it would be foolish to resist Porthos’ endeavours to make them comfortable.

Thus Athos has pulled Aramis further onto the left side of bed with him to make sufficient space for Porthos when he returns, allowing Porthos to lie down next to Aramis immediately. He does so with a sigh that sounds as content as it sounds exhausted, and he fumbles with the blanket he brought, drapes it over Aramis and Athos, and finally covers himself as well with the second one. “There,” he says, rolls onto his side behind Aramis, and stretches out his arm over him to place his hand on Athos’ hip. “Now no more worryin’ for today, _please_.”

“Despotic,” Aramis mumbles, sounding _delighted_ , and Athos smiles and closes his eyes.

“You will get used to it.”

“Will I?” Aramis asks, the faintest note of uncertain disbelief in his voice, and Porthos and Athos answer him with an utterly confident, perfectly synchronized, “ _yes_ ” that shuts him up quite beautifully.

Not for long, though.

“Porthos,” he says, and flails around on the mattress until he is facing the other way – Porthos’ chest, to be precise.

“What now?” Porthos asks, his impatient words softened by the warm affection in his voice, and Athos loves the way Porthos looks down at Aramis, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, helplessly fond.

“I am so sorry for worrying you,” Aramis tells him, terribly earnest, “I can only imagine how … how annoying and exhausting it must have been to –“

“If I kiss you, will you stop apologizin’?” Porthos asks him, again far gentler than anyone would expect. “Because that’s what’s exhaustin’ me the most – that you two keep blamin’ yourself for somethin’ that’s so good and beautiful and _perfect_ –“

Aramis lifts his head then, and kisses him, and Porthos pulls him into his arms, entirely at ease, visibly pleased at being interrupted in this fashion. Athos watches them from under half closed lashes, tired but content, and reaches out to touch Aramis’ naked back – craving his warmth as much as the contact to one he loves so dearly.

Aramis sighs into his kiss with Porthos when Athos touches him, and releases Porthos’ lips. “Would you … would you kiss Athos good-night as well?” he asks, sounding timid. “I would … so much like to see it.”

Porthos lets out an amused huff, and Athos smiles sleepily.

“You would, eh?” Porthos chuckles, and then Aramis is being pushed on his back, and Porthos is grinning across him at Athos. “What do you say? Shall we humour him?”

Instead of replying, Athos moves closer to Aramis and half on top of him, and lifts his head. Aramis’ hand immediately comes up to steady him, and Athos only smiles wider – smiles into Porthos’ mouth when he kisses him, closes his eyes and lets go of any doubt he might have had concerning this reckless decision of his.

Aramis is holding on to his shoulder, and Athos can feel his eyes on them as they kiss, can feel the way that Aramis draws in a deep breath and holds it inside his chest when Porthos opens his mouth, and coaxes Athos’ tongue inside. The blood rises to Athos’ cheeks the longer he keeps kissing Porthos, but not from arousal. This feeling is different – being watched while kissing should by rights make him nervous, and maybe even spoil the experience for him.

It does not.

As soon as Porthos pulls back, Athos turns and lowers his head to press his mouth to Aramis’, swallows the surprised moan that falls off his lips, and strokes his hand over Aramis’ naked chest.

He can feel Porthos’ eyes on him just like he felt Aramis’, and he realizes that he enjoys being watched as long as it is either Porthos or Aramis doing it – that he feels safe and guarded under his friends’ watchful gaze.

“The two of you are just _perfect_ ,” Porthos whispers next to them, and he sounds so affected that goose bumps break out all over Athos’ back and arms, and he presses his eyes shut so hard that he sees stars explode behind his lids. Aramis’ reaction is a helpless gasp of surprise; for a few seconds their kiss turns not so much heated as _intense_ – and they are both breathless when they part.

Porthos lifts his hand, traces first Athos’ beard with his fingertips, and then Aramis’, “I’m grateful that I get to have both of you.”

Aramis kisses his cheek and calls him a charmer, but he sounds as shaken as Athos feels. He watches Porthos push Aramis down on his back and draw the blanket higher over his chest, watches Aramis yield and close his eyes.

“Sleep,” Porthos says with a quiet smile, and lets his gaze rest on Athos until he too lies himself down and closes his eyes. “More kisses in the mornin’.”

They fall asleep like that, pressed up against and tangled with each other, and if Athos has ever felt the same deep sense of serenity spreading out through his bones while he dropped off into slumber, he has no memory of it.

 

A night of undisturbed rest can do wonders for the soul – and even more wonders for an exhausted body. Athos’ head feels mercifully clear when he wakes, free from any shadows that might cloud his mind. He is aware of what happened on the previous day, even before he opens his eyes.

If he was not, the warm weight of Aramis, half-draped across his chest, would give him something of a clue. Athos blinks his lashes open and looks at him, gazes at Aramis’ face, relaxed in sleep, faintly smiling, and he knows that he did right yesterday.

It’s a rather relieving revelation.

Aramis looks no longer quite so worn-out and exhausted as he did when Athos found him on the market the previous morning. The dark circles have vanished from underneath his eyes, and his skin no longer looks pallid. Athos does not even want to think about what Aramis did in the three days he kept away, or who he spent those days with. They did not make him happy, that much is certain.

Athos has every intention of making Aramis happy, to the best of his ability. He is very glad that he has Porthos to support him in this task.

Turning his gaze a little further to the right reveals that Porthos is already awake, lying on his side directly behind Aramis, elbow on the mattress and head supported by his left hand – smiling down at them. “Mornin’.”

Athos finds himself smiling back, relaxed and content. “Good morning.”

Porthos reaches out across Aramis, puts his hand to Athos’ cheek and cups it gently, lets his thumb brush over Athos’ cheekbone. “You two look ridiculously perfect together when you sleep, you know that?”

Athos closes his eyes and leans into his touch. “Ridiculous I will believe – the rest not so much.”

Porthos huffs and lets his thumb stroke lower over Athos’ cheek and then his lips, slow and caressing. “I never thought I could have this,” he whispers.

Athos opens his eyes to look at him, and Porthos looks back, his own eyes wide open and honest, drowning Athos in warmth. They gaze at each other for a long while, and then Aramis wakes up and claims their attention.

He stretches and yawns, blinks his eyes open – and freezes.

“It’s alright,” Porthos mumbles, lowers his head and kisses Aramis’ naked shoulder. “I did that the first few mornings, too.”

Athos lifts his left brow. “You did?”

“Course I did,” Porthos explains with a twinkling grin, “I’d never woken up in such exalted company before. Made me think I was still dreamin’.”

Athos huffs and lifts his hand to stroke Aramis’ hair out of his face. “Are you alright?”

“… Yes,” Aramis says slowly, stretches the word as far as it will go. “I’m … I’m alright. I think.” He bites his lip and looks at Athos from underneath his lashes, endlessly appealing. “I believe I will go to Hell for this,” he says, almost earnest enough for Athos to believe he is serious. Almost.

“Please do not be nonsensical,” Athos tells him dryly. “We are rehabilitating you.”

Porthos chuckles, as Aramis stares, and Athos lifts his head, softly kisses him on the lips. “You said before you believed your God to be one of love – is that no longer true?”

For if he believes that, Athos thinks they might just get away with this.

Aramis replies with a kiss of his own, fierce in its execution, but utterly loving and tender as well. He licks his way into Athos’ mouth, for the first time intent on what he is doing, aware and in control, and Athos moans – as much surprised as genuinely aroused.

Aramis is a good kisser, confident and skilled, but also very, very giving, a prime example of generousness. Before Athos knows what he is doing he has pulled Aramis on top of him, is holding on to him with both hands and trying to give back as good as he gets.

He only stops when Aramis’ moans turn helpless with passion, and allows him to draw away.

“That looked really nice,” Porthos comments while Aramis stares down at Athos, panting, a stunned look on his features. “And I hate to tell you this, but we’re about to be late, and need to get up.”

Both Athos and Aramis turn their heads at once, and stare at him. “Now?” Aramis asks, sounding rather desperate, while Athos frowns, “Why didn’t you wake us?”

Porthos lifts one brow at him. “We aren’t late _yet_ – there’s just no time for more of what you were just doin’.”

Aramis lets his forehead drop to Athos’ chest. “That’s just cruel, you know that, right?”

“If you’d just talked to us, we could’ve been doin’ this for weeks,” Porthos tells him mercilessly. “Don’t turn this into my fault.”

Aramis promptly crawls off Athos and rolls on his side so he can cuddle up to Porthos and get a kiss from him as well. “You’re not angry, are you?” he coaxes. “You know I didn’t mean it.”

Athos rolls his eyes, entirely unimpressed. This is exactly what he expected – not the shy, overwhelmed Aramis from last night, but this … this nuisance.

Porthos, bless his soul, looks caught somewhere between annoyance and fondness, and Aramis gets his kiss – even if it’s a brief one. “Spare me your antics,” Porthos grumbles, without even a hint of heat behind it. “You can wheedle all you want – nothin’s gonna happen until tonight.”

With that he gets up, and leaves a rather intrigued Aramis behind.

Athos cannot be sure whether it’s Porthos’ unconcerned nakedness that causes Aramis to leer at him, or the unspoken promise of things to come. Athos does not ask him. Instead, he gets up as well, shares a quick wash with Porthos, and gets dressed.

By the time he dons his hat Aramis is nearly finished as well, although the way he fiddles with his braces looks somewhat preoccupied. He will probably be thinking about Porthos’ words till they are free to return home in the evening, and Athos cannot blame him.

One look at Porthos confirms Athos’ suspicion that he is quite aware of what he is doing, and means to let Aramis stew in anticipation for the rest of the day.

Athos can hardly decide whether he approves or not. He thinks the choice might be easier if he was not stewing as well, right along with Aramis, sharing the same flame, the same heat. And when Porthos moves to step in front of Aramis, when he straightens his braces, and buttons up his jacket, Athos is _certain_ that this will turn out to be one of the longest days of his career as a musketeer.

Aramis looks ready to _climb_ Porthos, his eyes dark and full of promises – but Porthos merely grins at him, hungry, to be certain, and rather predatory, but entirely controlled. “Are we ready then?”

Athos had no idea Porthos could be such a tease.

Aramis quickly rises up to his toes, brushes a kiss to Porthos’ lips, and nearly dislocates Porthos’ hat – belatedly realizing that his own is missing.

The sudden look of utter distraction on his face is almost comical.

“Your hat is at Porthos’ lodgings,” Athos tells him in a calming voice. “I … picked it up, yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Aramis says, heart-felt gratitude in his voice, and steps over to Athos to kiss him as well, flustering him with his open affection, if just a little. “Can we go and get it before we march on to the garrison?”

Athos lifts his right hand and rakes his fingers through Aramis’ unruly hair. “I believe that would be the best course of action, yes.”

Aramis promptly kisses him again.

“You two are unbelievable,” Porthos decides, his tone equal parts gruff and fond. “Will you stop so we can go?”

“But I need to make up for all the lost time,” Aramis says, both hands on his chest, directly over his heart, an expression of angelic innocence on his features.

Porthos grunts and makes a grab for Aramis’ shoulder, pushes him out of the room so Athos can lock up behind them. “You need to get your head out of the clouds.”

“Not today,” Aramis tells him, and hooks his arm into Porthos’. “Don’t ask me to – not today.”

He sounds strangely solemn. Porthos’ expression softens, and he pats the arm interlinked with his own. “Yeah, alright. Not today.”

Aramis smiles at him, bright and grateful, and turns a searching glance around until he finds Athos walking behind them in the narrow street. He sobers instantly. “Am I usurping your –“

“No,” Athos interrupts him smoothly. “You stay right where you are. You have to make up for lost time – you said it yourself.”

Aramis still looks stricken, and Athos smiles at him. “I will voice my complaints, should any arise, I promise.” Aramis and Porthos exchange a glance both looking sceptical, and Athos repeats his words. “I promise.”

Porthos’ features relax, and he grins at Athos over his shoulder, satisfied and very nearly proud. “Alright then.”

The streets are already busy and alive with chatter, and they make their way to Porthos’ lodgings in companionable silence, each lost in thoughts of his own. More than once Athos catches Aramis turning his head and staring up at Porthos, a little smile on his face, as joyous as it is bemused.

Still overwhelmed, then.

Athos finds it terribly endearing. He never doubted the depth of Aramis’ friendship – only doubted that he deserved it – but to see him so obviously in love, now that he no longer tries to hide his feelings … it warms Athos to his core. Aramis is always in love, yes, _but not like this_ , never so fragile and vulnerable. He gives his love to heal people, heals them with his touch and his heart, and moves on when they do not need him any more.

Athos will always need him, as will Porthos – but the most important difference might be that Aramis needs them, too. Neither of them will move on – the pull between them is just too strong.

The thought frightens Athos just as much as it strengthens him, and he squares his shoulders as he watches Porthos unlock and pull open the door to his lodgings. Athos is the first to step inside, and he is quick to find Aramis’ hat on the bed, where he had left it the previous day.

“The feather is a little crushed,” he says, picking it up, and turns it around to show it to Aramis, “we might have to get you a new one.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a sufficiently majestic peacock,” Porthos supplies from the open door, his voice teasing.

Aramis’ lips quirk into a grin, and he nods, and takes his hat from Athos to plant it on his head. “If all else fails, we have to send d’Artagnan out to our farm – I’m sure Madame will let him pluck anything he fancies.” His tone is not so much suggestive as downright filthy, his face, however, is a picture of virtuousness.

Athos rolls his eyes and sighs; Porthos snickers and steps further into the room, pulls Aramis closer to him and out of sight from the open door – presses a thorough kiss to his mouth. “I missed that.”

Athos did too, but he will not ever say so out loud. He clears his throat. “Shall we?”

They step outside again, watch Porthos lock his door, and this time Aramis takes Athos’ arm – reluctant and rather fearful of being shoved away behind the bravado of his grin.

Athos feels his insides go liquid with helpless affection.

His face remains entirely passive, but he draws Aramis a little closer, and walks on steadily, very aware of Porthos’ presence at their backs. They make good time, arrive at the garrison in a manner of minutes – and are immediately spotted by d’Artagnan, who apparently has been waiting for them with his breakfast.

His face lights up when he realizes that they have arrived together, and he beams at each of them in turn when they sit down at the table – Aramis and Athos opposite of him, and Porthos at his right side. “Have you made up then?”

Aramis grins at him, friendly and entirely harmless. “I wasn’t aware we were fighting.”

The mere fact that he keeps quiet and does not spill the news as soon as he is offered an opportunity inspires Athos with a burning desire to kiss him. He has come to see so many new facets of his friend in the course of only two days that he can only remain in somewhat nervous expectation of what the future will bring.

D’Artagnan, blissfully ignorant of Athos’ thoughts, makes an unimpressed face at Aramis. “Well, I was. Very aware.” He levels a questioning glance at Athos, “Did something happen?”

Athos freezes in all movement, his mind suddenly blank.

D’Artagnan blinks at him, and tilts his head when no answer is forthcoming. Athos can watch the ideas flit through his brain, one right after the other, until one of them settles, and d’Artagnan’s gaze flicks towards Aramis before it returns to Athos. “No,” he says, drawn-out and disbelieving. “No, no, no, no, no.” He lifts an admonishing finger at Aramis. “You wouldn’t. Please say you didn’t!”

He sounds almost angry – but in a _paternal_ way, concerned for his offspring’s welfare. It is clear that he blames Aramis for … anything he believes might have happened, and Athos is touched, and amused, and at the same time very nervous. He cherishes the boy’s opinion far more than he probably should.

Aramis starts to fidget, either agog to tell his story at last, or genuinely discomfited – Athos cannot tell. Nevertheless he clears his throat, lifts his chin, and finds his voice. “Nothing happened.”

D’Artagnan narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”

Athos very nearly gapes at him.

Then a new idea accosts d’Artagnan’s brain, and he turns around in his seat and looks up at Porthos, honest worry lining his features. “Are you alright with this?” He falters, and bites his lip. “I mean …”

Athos’ eyes go very wide. Apparently d’Artagnan has come to such astute conclusions as to be almost bang up to the mark, and Athos is instantly afraid just how many of his innermost feelings might show on his face – his heart laid bare for the whole world to see.

This consideration does not seem to bother Porthos at all. “I’ve got no reason for complaint,” he shrugs, his smile somewhat enigmatic, utterly content. He treats the situation as he always does: with an implicit calmness, not at all ruffled, neither by d’Artagnan’s worry, nor by the disclosure of their scandalous relationship.

Athos could never even try and put his amazement at such an attitude into words; even if he took the time to list Porthos all the things that could go wrong, everything he could, maybe should, be afraid of. Athos does not at all understand how Porthos can be like this – and has even less desire to change him in any way.

Naturally, d’Artagnan understands Porthos _immediately_. It seems he has learned from his last, quite similar experience, and will never again be duped by his friends’ relationship developments.

“Oh my God,” he says, blushing, staring at each of them in turn. Then he slumps in his seat, shoulders down, and puts his head between his hands for a moment – the very picture of a man frozen in shock.

Athos watches him in gathering unease, uncertain what he will do should the boy condemn them.

“And I was so worried,” d’Artagnan whispers finally, and the rigidity drains right out of his body as he slumps even lower. “Couldn’t you just _tell_ me?”

Athos and Aramis look at each other, and Athos finds the same relief that is burning through his veins mirrored in Aramis’ eyes.

“It’s a recent development,” Porthos says apologetically, and puts his arm around the boy, pulls him up a little. “You’re takin’ this rather well.”

When d’Artagnan looks up, his face is flushed, but he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. “And why shouldn’t I?”

Porthos grins at him, wide and joyful, and ruffles his hair. “No reason.”

D’Artagnan makes a grab across the table for a piece of bread and bites into it rather viciously. Athos regards him with fond gratefulness. “I take it you are not … upset?”

D’Artagnan chews with a determined expression on his face, and swallows ere he speaks. “Not upset, no.” He frowns, and loses himself in profound contemplation for a moment. “I think I’m actually glad.” He seems to be confused and embarrassed by this, and more or less hisses at Aramis when he laughs at him. “Shut up!”

Aramis lifts both hands in a sign of peaceful surrender and leans closer towards Athos – entirely unaware of what he is doing. Athos regards him fondly for a moment, and leaves him be – levels an honest, heart-felt smile at d’Artagnan. “Thank you.”

The boy flushes even more. “It’s not my place to judge you.”

“Be that as it may,” Athos says quietly, “I am very glad of your … support.”

D’Artagnan beams at him. “I’m supporting anything that makes you happy.”

Next to Athos, Aramis makes a strangled noise, and Porthos throws his arm around d’Artagnan once more, and draws him into a warm embrace, not at all crushing, but instead tender and infinitely careful.

“I’m so glad we kept him,” Aramis says into Athos’ ear, sounding awed, even a little choked-up. Athos can only nod.


	10. Chapter 10

The sky is blue and dotted with clouds, and the sun shines down on them for the duration of their breakfast. Other musketeers arrive at the garrison, get their orders and set to work, but the four of them remain at the table, making their breakfast a hearty one, their appetites as high as their mood. Even Athos does not have to be teased into eating for once.

Trying to prevent Aramis from giving d’Artagnan a whispered account of this morning’s proceedings – and those of last night – they nearly fail to notice the sudden entry into the yard of a foppish elderly gentleman. D’Artagnan, facing the entry to the yard, spots him first, and his eyes go wide in wonder when he sees the painted face and powdered wig, and the numerous seals and fobs that adorn the gentleman’s clothing.

Athos follows his bemused gaze and turns around to see what has claimed the boy’s attention. He sits up straighter immediately, troubled and alarmed, but only for a moment. He leans towards Aramis, keeping any and all annoyance out of his voice as he speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “Stay here. Do not interfere.”

With that he gets up, slowly and deliberately, and walks over to the gentleman, ere someone else takes it upon themselves to inquire how they may assist him. Athos knows precisely what the man wants, but he has no intention of assisting him in any way.

He might have known that Aramis’ involvement with Madame Faudree would result in evil consequences, however brief it might have been. Strangely enough, he isn’t all that angry with Aramis. Athos himself drinks when he is unhappy – Aramis finds other ways of distraction. That is just how it is.

This state of mind allows Athos to greet the intruder sufficiently courteous to not raise any suspicion at the outset. “Duke de Veillon,” he says, and inclines his head. “What an unsuspected pleasure.”

Athos finds himself the recipient of a cold, grey stare, and he does not doubt for even one second that all the rumours surrounding this man are true. The Duke does not even try to hide the cruelty lurking in his gaze, ready to leap at a moment’s notice. “And who are you?”

“I am the Comte d’Athos de la Fère,” Athos replies smoothly, after making sure that none of his brothers are in earshot. He hates to use his title, but appreciates the necessity. Men like de Veillon value nothing more than empty tokens of nobility, and Athos needs the Duke to value and respect him right now. “How may I assist you?”

De Veillon’s gaze turns tepid and at least a little more courteous, then he sneers – but not at Athos. “I have come to offer punishment to a musketeer by the name of Aramis. He has slighted a lady of my acquaintance.”

If the situation were not quite so serious, Athos might feel inclined to mock this aged villain who believes himself so far above the rest of society that no rules of conduct apply to him. It certainly requires a vast amount of aloof self-consequence to appear at the garrison on so flimsy an excuse – as if he had to offer nothing else than this false testimony to be allowed to punish Aramis as he sees fit.

“I know this man you speak of,” Athos says, and his voice turns silky. “He is a very dear friend of mine. May I ask of what nature the slight to your friend has been? For I know Aramis to be a man of particular address where the ladies are concerned.”

De Veillon stiffens and his cheeks flush beneath his powder, but his eyes remain sharp and cold. “I would prefer not to repeat what was said and done to my friend. Her wound is recent – only yesterday morning did that scoundrel accost her and offend her fragile sensibility.”

Athos smiles to himself, and relaxes. He had not dared to hope it would be so easy. “I fear that is rather impossible, Duke.”

De Veillon’s eyes narrow. “How so?”

“I was with Aramis for the entirety of the past day,” Athos informs him with haughty composure. “I certainly did not notice him offering a slight, be it to a lady or otherwise.” He smiles. “I am afraid your friend has mistaken her offender.”

The Duke colours even more. “You are certain of this?”

“I am quite certain that no blame at all applies to Aramis in this case,” Athos says firmly. “I am very sorry that your errand here is in vain.”

He notices movement out of the corner of his eye, and sees Porthos getting up, and sauntering closer. De Veillon stiffens noticeably, and Athos has to suppress a smirk. He did not plan on involving Porthos in this, but it certainly makes matters easier.

“What’s this, then?” Porthos asks once he is standing next to Athos, sounding as gruff and threatening as he possibly can beneath a very thin surface of polite interest. Around them, the yard clears perceptively, the other musketeers knowing that tone of voice too well to stick around. “What happened?” Porthos has positioned himself in such a way as to block all view of the breakfast table behind him, and his smile is rather dangerous.

Athos can only admire Porthos behaving in such a way when he cannot possibly have any clue who this man is, and what he wants. What Porthos does know though – because he has watched Athos interact with the Duke – is that Athos is confronting a man he would like to get rid of as soon as possible. So Porthos acts accordingly, this not being the first time that an enraged husband has come to the garrison to demand satisfaction and execute vengeance on their friend.

“This is the Duke de Veillon, Porthos,” Athos says, endeavouring to sound as impassive as possible. “He has come in search of Aramis – or so he believed.”

Porthos nods at the Duke and receives a frigid stare in return, and Athos smiles once more. He is starting to enjoy this, if only because de Veillon is endlessly unpleasant, and his fear of Porthos all too obvious. “Porthos was with Aramis and myself yesterday – maybe you would like to ask him for his testimony?”

Porthos’ inviting grin at the Duke is all teeth.

“I do not believe that to be necessary,” the Duke says, sounding somewhat constipated. “But thank you for your kind offer. My recommendation to your Captain.”

With that he takes himself off, and Athos and Porthos remain side by side, watching him leave the yard, their shoulders very nearly touching.

“What a pompous arse,” Porthos comments. “Who’s he again?”

Athos reminds him. Porthos grunts and turns around to go back to the table, while Athos remains standing for a moment longer, brows knit into a slight frown, ere he shakes his head and follows him.

Aramis is still sitting where they left him, shoulders up and head down, and when Athos lowers himself onto the bench at his side, Aramis does not look at him. “Thank you.”

“I do hope that was the last we have heard of that affair,” Athos drawls, and glances at Aramis from the corner of his eye. “How very brazen of Madame Faudree to name you when you had not even offered her any reason yet.” He cuts into a fresh loaf of bread. “Or had you?”

“No,” Aramis says guiltily, his spirits as low as they can get. “I was … ah, working up to that.”

“She must be desperate to give the Duke something to do then,” Athos comments. “Understandable, really, now that I got a closer look at him, but reprehensible all the same.” He offers Aramis a slice of bread. “Do not look so down-cast. Nothing bad has come of it yet.”

Aramis finally lifts his head and stares at him from out of disbelieving eyes. “How are you so calm? You usually hate nothing more than when we involve you in –”

“You were unhappy,” Athos interrupts him. “We all of us do questionable things when we are unhappy.” He glances over at Porthos. “Besides: I involved myself in this, as did Porthos. I would say we came over that ground as lightly as possible, would you not?”

Porthos grins and nods, and levels an affable smile at Aramis. “Better stay away from his Mistress now, eh?”

D’Artagnan clears his throat in a rather exaggerated manner to disrupt the utter silence that follows that remark. Aramis blinks at Porthos, the picture of speechlessness, and Athos realizes that they have in fact not yet talked about the nature of their arrangement. Aramis’ demeanour suggests that he believes himself to be bound in fidelity. An interesting thought.

“Of course I will stay away from her!” Aramis exclaims, and the amazement in his voice stems as much from shock as from hurt. “Did you think I’d still – that I – even now that we –“

“I infer that you do not want to continue your affairs?” Athos stops him, his own voice soothing, and warm. “Good to know.”

There’s a sudden wetness in Aramis’ eyes. “You really thought I would –“

“Porthos and I have in fact never properly discussed the matter,” Athos says calmly, “and I do believe we should leave that for later, when we are in private.”

Aramis presses his lips together, looking far from pleased, and Athos does not know what else to say to him. However much he believes Aramis to be sincere in his decision, that he really does want to stay true to them – Athos must own that he doubts the durability of it. He has witnessed Aramis fall in love too often to allow himself the comfort of blind trust.

For now they should be safe, though. It always takes Aramis some time before his emotions get the better of him and turn everything upside down – his life as well as the lives of everyone involved.

“But why,” Aramis looks up at Athos, his eyes displaying the hurt and confusion that have taken over his mind, “… why would you even allow me to touch you, believing that I –“ Aramis’ voice falters, and his expression turns hopeless. “Ah, I see.”

“You see what?” Porthos grunts across the table. “And mind your answer – the Whelp might start to cry, you know.”

Athos quickly looks over at d’Artagnan, and the boy looks pensive, yes, and uncomfortable, but also compassionate.

Aramis, entirely unaware, smiles, self-depreciating and sad, and shrugs his shoulders. “You simply do not believe that I can stay true – at all. You believe that I will always run astray, sooner or later. Isn’t that right?”

He looks at Athos, speaking the words, _only at Athos_ , and Athos gazes back at him, feeling guilty suddenly. “It does not matter if you do,” he says gently. “That is what I am trying to tell you. I believe in your devotion to us, and in your loyalty – I also believe that you will always return to us, no matter how far you may stray. You have always done so in the past, after all.”

Behind them in his alcove the smithy picks up his work, and the snatches of a song intermingled with the hammer hitting anvil ring through the yard.

“Isabelle at least had the good sense to run away when she realized what I am,” Aramis says after a long moment of silence, sounding bitter, and self-loathing. “She preferred becoming a nun to being married to me. I’m starting to believe you and Porthos should do the same.”

“Run away and become nuns?” Porthos says, “I don’t think they’d take us at the monastery – even though Mother Superior had taken quite a shine to Athos when we were there last.” He levels a sincere smile at Aramis. “We love you the way you are, you see – we’ve no intention of runnin’ away.”

Aramis’ eyes open wide, and the blood rises to his cheeks, and Athos hopes that he has finally understood what they were trying to tell him all along. “Just as Porthos says,” he murmurs and reaches out to clasp Aramis’ upper arm. “Please understand that we did not mean to hurt you by … by not forcing you to mend your ways.”

Aramis looks up and into his eyes. “But you hate my affairs – you hated every single one of them.”

“I never hated you, though,” Athos replies softly. “You must be aware of that.”

Captain Treville disturbs the moment by appearing on the balustrade above them. “Good morning, gentlemen.” He detects Athos, and smiles. “I believe you still have some days of leave left.”

Athos slowly withdraws his hand from Aramis' arm and looks up at the Captain. “Officially, yes.”

Treville’s smile widens. “You may accompany your men, if you like,” he says, “I have nothing but patrolling for them to do today.” He nods down at them, calls out to another musketeer to join him in his office, and goes back inside.

Thus dismissed, Athos transfers his attention to Aramis once more.

By now, Aramis no longer looks sad or hurt. He is smiling again, albeit tremulously, and raking his fingers through his hair. “I’ve just made a cake of myself, haven’t I?”

Athos lips twitch, but he manages to preserve a sombre face. “Porthos and I are used to it.”

He has a heartbeat or two to enjoy the unfamiliar expression of embarrassment on Aramis’ features before he becomes the recipient of a hug, as abrupt as it is breathtaking.

“You are too good,” he hears Aramis whisper, “I’m sure I don’t deserve you.”

If Athos could bring himself to speak, he would tell Aramis to shut up.

“You know what, Porthos,” d’Artagnan pipes up suddenly. “I don’t believe I envy you. At all.”

Both Aramis and Athos stiffen at the comment, but Porthos takes it in good-humour. “Eh, you’re a fool then. Just look at them, all cuddly. Did you ever think you’d be blessed with seein’ such a thing?”

“No,” d’Artagnan replies, sounding highly amused. “But I have to admit that I never gave the possibility much thought.”

“Well,” Porthos says, and his voice dips into seriousness for a moment. “I did. and I’ll have you know that –“ He stops, and grins at Aramis and Athos who are both watching him, with varying degrees of helpless affection. “Eh. I’d better tell ‘em later. In private.”

Aramis sighs, clearly disappointed, but Athos feels strangely relieved. They may get away with much in public, being no closer than usual by outward appearances, but he prefers to receive declarations of love and devotion in the privacy of his bedchamber. Or _a_ bedchamber at least.

“Yes,” he says, as smoothly as his ruffled emotions let him. “I believe we had better take on our duties and start patrol.”

“You’re still on leave,” Aramis reminds him.

Athos lifts his left brow. “I do believe the exercise will do me good.”

“Yeah, it will,” Porthos agrees immediately. “It’ll be nice – a quiet stroll round the city.”

Aramis groans. “Will you stop with your predictions? Every time you say something like this, we inevitably run into trouble!”

“Not today,” Porthos replies, a mulish set to his chin.

 

So they sally forth, and nothing of even the least excitement happens. If it weren’t for Porthos interspersing his conversation with hints to the advancing night, Athos might even get bored.

Matters being as they are, he finds himself in a state of mild but constant arousal, not at all reduced by Aramis’ demeanour of ever-increasing distraction. He tries very hard to control himself – Athos is aware of this – but the way Aramis keeps hovering by his side, constantly brushing up against him or Porthos, always touching … it drives him slowly but surely mad.

He is unable to remember to have ever felt like this before: this almost adolescent need to be close to someone, hidden away from the eyes of the world, free to explore his desires.

Maybe it would be easier if Aramis would behave as expected – suave and sure of himself – instead of charming Athos by being timid and bashful, obviously starving to be touched, but reluctant to push for and demand attention.

It only makes Athos want to touch him more.

D’Artagnan seems to be aware of what is going on, and tolerates it with a demeanour of such stolid placidity that Athos can only admire him. If it was himself, he would in all probability distance himself from the group, instead of orbiting it closely, and giving off an aura of fond amusement.

When evening at last arrives, and with it their freedom to go and do as they please, d’Artagnan actually hesitates for a moment ere he leaves them – but the moment passes, and he goes – without a single word, but with a smile hovering around his lips that speaks volumes and looks as though he has stolen it from Aramis’ repertoire.

Porthos clears his throat even before the boy is quite out of earshot. “So. Where do we go?”

Aramis does not say anything, but looks at the cobbles at his feet. Athos experiences a surge of rather violent need pulsing through his veins, and he has to clear his throat as well, speaks over the thunder in his mind and chest, “Aramis’ … lodgings offer the most space.”

Aramis looks up at him then, and smiles – again far too shy for Athos’ peace of mind.

“You got oil?” Porthos asks, brazen as can be in the middle of a busy street, but no-one pays him even the slightest attention.

It is Aramis’ turn to clear his throat. “Yes. I had … bought a new bottle for your use before we were sent out on the last mission.”

Athos very nearly takes his hand, right then and there, to pull him into his arms. “Do you want us to come home with you?” he asks, wishing his mouth would refrain from speaking without consulting his wits first … hoping with all his heart that the answer will be yes.

He would of course accept it if Aramis says no, but he would infinitely prefer to –

“Yes,” Aramis says, and he sounds a little breathless. “I want that. Of course I do.”

Porthos’ answering grin looks decidedly dangerous – but in a good way. Athos clears his throat once more. “Shall we then?”

Neither of them actually move, until Porthos takes both Aramis and Athos by the shoulder and shoves them in the right direction. “You two are drivin’ me mad,” he informs them under his breath. “I just hope you don’t plan on behavin’ like this all night – I can accomplish much by myself, but some things are much more fun when done together.”

“You taught him to talk like that,” Athos accuses Aramis, trying to keep his heart rate under control.

His reward is a breathless laugh, and Aramis shakes his head. “Ah, no, I didn’t. I promise you – I didn’t.”

Athos can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off Porthos as he continues to steer them through the streets, but prefers not to comment on it. If he did, Porthos might feel inclined to retort, and Athos would rather not succumb to his arousal in public.

Aramis remains quiet as well, and when Athos glances at him from the side, he sees him smiling – soft and happy, his eyes directed at the ground instead of the panorama surrounding them. It almost _aches_ , how much Athos wants to kiss him.

Porthos lets go of his shoulder rather abruptly, and Athos believes he has never before been so relieved to arrive at Aramis’ lodgings. Anticipation rises ever higher inside him while he watches Aramis unlock the door, and he curls his fingers into fists, forces himself to hold out for just a few moments longer.

Aramis’ hands seem steady enough on the key; he does not fumble while turning the handle and opening the door; but when Athos takes his elbow and pushes him through, a surprised huff escapes his throat, and he starts to laugh. “To be honest, I would have expected Porthos to be the one who –“

He does not get any further. Athos has claimed his mouth, and whatever else Aramis intended to say is lost and forgotten as he sighs in pleasure and steps closer and into Athos’ arms, instantly diverted.

Athos closes his eyes as he coaxes his tongue between Aramis’ lips, and he keeps them closed as he licks into Aramis’ mouth, places both hands on his cheeks – as much to touch as to hold on to him and ground himself by doing so.

Kissing Aramis is so different from kissing Porthos – not only because he does not have to tilt his chin up to meet Aramis’ mouth; but the taste is different as well, as is the entire nature of the kiss.

Because no matter how passionately Porthos may kiss him, underneath it all there will always be a solid base of anchored calm, gentle and caring. Aramis does not have that. Where Porthos is earth and water, Aramis is fire and air, his kisses are hotter, lighter, and Athos is more likely to forget himself while kissing Aramis – would probably do so if he was not so aware of Porthos’ presence.

He can hear Porthos closing the door and stepping further into the room, can hear him take off his hat and his jacket. Aramis, meanwhile, seems to be lost to everything but their kiss. He whines into Athos’ mouth and moves ever closer to him, plasters his whole body against Athos’.

His behaviour essentially removes all self control and restraint Athos had left, and he deepens their kiss, while his hands drop off Aramis’ cheeks and glide over the leather of his uniform instead, stroke over his chest and belly, enjoying the muted warmth beneath. His left hand comes to rest on Aramis’ hip, but his right reaches between Aramis’ legs, cups him through his trousers.

Athos experiences a very short moment of stunned awareness, amazed at his own boldness – then he lets go, throws all doubt and shame into the back of his mind where it cannot harm him.

Aramis wants him. They would not be here right now if this wasn’t what Aramis wanted.

“I assume you want him first?” Porthos says from behind them, the lecherous grin very audible in his voice.

Athos and Aramis moan simultaneously, and Aramis bucks his hips, rubs his hardening cock against Athos’ fingers, his whine swallowed by Athos’ mouth. It feels so good to have him react in such a way – goes to Athos’ head like champagne, makes him feel warm and loose, unafraid of consequences … causes his desire for Aramis to climb to hitherto unrivalled heights.

It is not that he had to wait for one day to have this … the fact of the matter is that he has been waiting for so much longer, unaware he even wanted it. While being with Porthos feels like coming home … this is Athos counting his blessings and finding he has more of them than he ever thought possible.

He starts to move his hand, back and forth, keeps up a slight, torturous pressure, lets his fingertips press into the supple leather covering Aramis’ crotch. Aramis releases his mouth with a gasp and takes deep, gulping breaths of air, staring up at the ceiling, his neck exposed and vulnerable.

Athos stares at him, unable to avert his gaze. He was always aware that Aramis is rather handsome, but now –

“Come on,” Porthos rumbles behind him, close to his left shoulder, “at least take off your hat.”

Once more, Aramis seems to have lost his already, but Athos is still wearing his, and Porthos plucks it off his head and moves to stand directly behind Athos, rubs his groin against Athos’ ass – half hard, just from watching them.

Athos escapes a moan, and Aramis lowers his chin and looks, no _stares_ at them. Athos sees him swallow, watches his throat work, and experiences a spike of heat right beneath his skin, travelling through the whole of his body. Aramis’ eyes have glazed over, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough, “You’re … you’re both so –“

Athos’ hand grabs him a little firmer, and Aramis’ forehead falls onto Athos’ shoulder as a violent tremor works its way down’ Aramis spine.

“What do you wanna do with him, love?” Porthos rumbles next to Athos’ ear. He does not sound suggestive as much as honestly curious, and Athos has to bite his lip to keep in a groan.

He wants everything.

His fingers keep moving on Aramis’ hardening cock, keep massaging it through the leather of his trousers; Athos can feel the heat coming off him against the palm of his hand, can feel Aramis’ warmth all along his front, and he is aware that he _could_ stop this and allow them to approach each other more sedately, but he does not _want_ to. It feels right like this, feels right to rush into it as though there were flames burning beneath their feet, driving them on.

“Athos,” Aramis whispers next to his ear, sounding helpless and awestruck all at once, “Athos … Athos, please …”

The desire to taste him flares up in Athos’ gut with a sudden intensity that leaves his throat dry. So he goes to his knees in front of Aramis, in all his uniform, while Porthos steps back to give him room, swearing – softly, yes, but with sufficient heat to push the blood up to Athos’ cheeks. He looks up at Aramis, as open and longing as he dares, and swallows once before he can bring himself to ask, “May I?”

For a brief moment Aramis looks as though he might faint.

Athos lets his hands stoke up and down on Aramis’ hips, his thumbs framing Aramis’ cock, and his expression is hopeful, almost pleading. “Aramis? May I?”

“Yes,” Aramis finally replies, hoarse, his voice barely raised above a whisper. “Of course, yes, _please_ … how can you – how can you even _ask_ –”

Athos smiles, relief and anticipation mingling inside him, turning into lust, and moves to unlace Aramis’ trousers – belatedly remembering Porthos, and that he might have a different plan; but as he turns his head to look at him, Porthos is already moving towards the hearth. “You go right ahead, love, I’ll join you in a minute.”

He sounds gleeful, and for a moment Athos watches him as he prepares a fire for them, his chest constricting with fierce appreciation for Porthos’ presence in his life.

When he looks back up at Aramis, Aramis is gazing down at him, his eyes almost all pupil, his cheeks flushed. Athos pulls his bottom lip between his teeth while he sets to work and unlaces Aramis’ trousers, bites down harder when he sees the outline of Aramis’ cock through the linen of his undergarments, the wet spot dampening the fabric.

By the looks of it Aramis will not last long, but then, he does not have to. The night is still young. Dusk has barely settled into the room.

Athos’ hands are commendably steady unlacing Aramis’ undergarments, and he does not give himself time to hesitate, pulls them down just as far as necessary and leans forward, opens his mouth. Above him, Aramis whimpers, but he does not touch him, not even when Athos swallows him down, too greedy to be shy.

Only when his senses are almost overwhelmed by the smell and taste of Aramis does Athos realize what he is doing – that he is on his knees once more – yet again for a man, again for someone he had for so long regarded as not only a friend, but almost a brother. Strangely enough, the realization does not make him falter, it merely inspires him to cling a little firmer to Aramis’ hips, and take him deeper.

It is strange though that Aramis still refrains from touching him – so different from Porthos who always puts a steadying hand to his head, cards his fingers through his hair.

Maybe Aramis is the one who needs steadying now. So Athos does his best to pleasure him, uses his hands and his mouth, equally delighted by the little helpless sounds spilling over Aramis’ lips as by the comparable ease with which he is able to take him.

Learning how to suck cock on Porthos might have honed his skill above the average.

So Athos closes his eyes, relaxes his throat and takes Aramis as deep as he can, moves his head forward until his nose brushes against Aramis’ groin. Above him, Aramis lets out a breathy whimper, and Athos would smile were his mouth not otherwise occupied.

He feels peaceful on his knees in front of Aramis, as if he’s arrived somewhere he was not even aware he was trying to get to.

When he draws back, Aramis makes that same noise again, causing Athos to open his eyes and look up at his face – pausing. Aramis does not look so much overwhelmed as trapped: trying to lock any and all emotion inside himself.

Athos pulls back immediately, lets Aramis’ cock glide out of his mouth to ask him what is wrong – and then Porthos steps over to them, leaving a crackling fire behind him in the hearth.

“Eh, what are you doin’ – what’s this?” He steps behind Aramis and pulls him close, pulls him against his chest, leans over his shoulder and puts his cheek next to Aramis’. “You can touch him, you know – he likes that. He likes that more than anythin’.”

Just like that Aramis’ tight control breaks, and he sighs – melts against Porthos at his back and releases his tightly clenched fists. “I – I thought –“

“He likes it,” Porthos says again, gentle but firm, looks down at Athos with an expression that very nearly pleads for support. “Don’t you, love?”

“Yes,” Athos confirms, his voice a bit rough from having a cock down his throat.

Aramis groans, hearing it, and he twitches, right in front of Athos’ face. Athos promptly swallows him down again and closes his eyes, certain that Porthos’ steadying presence will work its charm on Aramis.

It does.

Aramis hesitates for only one or two heartbeats, and then his hands glide into Athos’ hair, gently, oh so gently, but firm enough for Athos to elicit pleasure from the sensation. His own cock, although untouched, is almost fully hard, without even a hint of physical stimulation.

Just from being allowed to do this for Aramis.

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that,” he hears Porthos murmur above him. “Doesn’t he just look beautiful like this?”

There’s so much honeyed arousal in his voice to make Athos long for his touch, for his heat and steadiness, the feeling of safety that comes from being close to him.

Aramis’ throat leaves a noise like that of a dying man, and then it all spills out, “ _Yes_ ,” he says, his voice fervent, almost desperate, “God, Porthos, he looks – he looks gorgeous, I’d never thought that he – that he would – for _me_ …” He takes in a deep gulp of air and his fingers twist and shake in Athos’ hair as Athos lets him glide over his tongue, relishing his taste while Aramis’ words wash over him like the tide on a hot summer’s day.

He moves his head steadily back and forth, and he tries to look up at them, manages to get a few glimpses of their faces when he is pulling back.

Porthos is looking down at him, a smile lighting up his dark eyes, and Athos can see that he has put both his arms around Aramis’ torso and is holding him up, his cheek still right next to Aramis’, their breathing synchronized.

The corners of Athos’ eyes crinkle into a smile when he sees them like that, and he hears Aramis’ gasp, and grips his hip a little tighter with his left, uses his right to cup Aramis’ balls.

“Athos,” Aramis moans, and then again, “Athos” as his fingers flex against Athos’ scalp, helpless and overwhelmed, and his body shivers with the strain not to push forward and fuck Athos’ mouth.

“You gonna come?” Porthos asks him, his voice gruff and low, and Aramis’ answering “ _yes_ ” sounds like a plea for absolution.

“Hn,” Porthos hums, and smiles down at Athos, “you ready, love?”

Athos blinks his lashes at him, rather lazily, and Porthos chuckles. “He’s ready, Aramis.”

Aramis whimpers once more, and spills, accompanied by a throaty groan, his head thrown back onto Porthos’ shoulder. Athos holds on to his hips with both hands, follows the movement of Aramis’ body as his knees weaken, causing Aramis to slump down a little before Porthos catches his weight and keeps him upright.

Athos closes his eyes while he swallows, pulls back a little to taste it, for a moment so lost in the sensation that he almost forgets that he is being watched.

“Athos,” Aramis moans his name like it has some hidden meaning, granting strength and forgiveness, “Athos, Athos …”

Athos swallows everything Aramis has to give, stays on his knees until he is spent, and only releases him from his mouth when Aramis’ fingers start to twitch in his hair once more.

He leans back then, looks up at Aramis with a wide, searching gaze, and encounters a stare of awed disbelief, as loving as it is overwhelmed. “Athos …”

“You broke him,” Porthos comments quietly, sounding very nearly serious.

“Then you will have to fix him,” Athos replies, just as quietly, his voice wrecked and rough. He comes up from his knees, puts his hand to Aramis’ cheek. “Would you enjoy that?”

Aramis’ lids droop and he leans into the touch, rubbing his cheek against Athos’ palm. “I … I’m …”

Athos frowns. “Aramis, are you alright?” He steps a little closer to him, lifts Aramis’ chin, and encounters a dazed grin.

“I’m spectacular.” Aramis sounds rather drunk, and he leans forward, suddenly, kisses Athos and licks into his mouth, licks his release off Athos’ tongue.

Athos moans, and his lids fall shut. He is suddenly glaringly aware of his own arousal, nearly forgotten while pleasuring Aramis. He returns the kiss fervently, overcome by passion – driven mad by the way Aramis sucks on his tongue. His hands find Aramis’ hips, find naked, warm skin, and he digs his fingers into it, his thumb grazing back and forth over Aramis’ hip bones.

He could drown in this, lose himself entirely to lust, to the need to be with Aramis, to pleasure and kiss him, and take him so high as to make him forget his own name.

Then Aramis groans, suddenly, sounding different than before, and when Athos breaks their kiss he sees that Porthos has started to rub against Aramis from behind, while his arms still hold him pressed up against his chest.

“How about gettin’ naked?” Porthos asks, his tone conversational.

“Splendid idea,” Athos replies hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off the movement of Porthos’ hips, slow and relentless. But when Porthos grips Aramis a little tighter, and starts to move him towards the bed, Athos regains sufficient control over himself to help things along.

“You undo his buttons,” Porthos says, his voice like honey over sheer rock, “I’m gonna keep him steady.”

Athos nods and does as he is told, tries to concentrate on the task at hand instead of gazing down to where Aramis is already bare, naked and vulnerable in the warming air of the room. He opens Aramis’ uniform jacket, one button at a time, and then Aramis speaks, his voice uncertain and soft, “I can … I can undress myself – you don’t have to –“

“Let us take care of you, yeah?” Porthos interrupts him gently. “Or don’t you like it?”

“I love it,” Aramis replies, still in that vulnerable voice, “I love –“ He bites his lip and turns his head to the side, lets his gaze drop to the floor.

“We love you, too,” Porthos tells him, kisses the expanse of neck Aramis has exposed to him by turning his head, “don’t you ever doubt that.”

Athos is very glad that he has by now managed to undo all of Aramis’ buttons, because his hands are not at all steady anymore. He watches Aramis turn around to Porthos and throw his arms around his neck, pulling him down into the most desperate kiss Athos has ever witnessed.

It makes him reach out and put his hands to Aramis’ back, trying to steady them both – Aramis as well as himself. He can feel the living heat of Aramis beneath the leather of his uniform, and it helps, in a way, but it is not enough.

He needs to feel them right next to him, both Aramis and Porthos, needs to feel their warmth, the heat of their bodies beside his own.

Aramis presses into his touch, and when Porthos breaks the kiss and straightens, Aramis turns around so he can look at Athos again – the expression on his face that of a man afraid he might not find what he is looking for.

“I’m still here,” Athos soothes him, steps forward to press a brief kiss to his lips. “I won’t leave.”

Porthos contributes by pulling the jacket off Aramis’ shoulders, and stroking his braces to the sides, allowing them to dangle off Aramis’ hips. “No-one’s goin’ to leave.”

He pulls the shirt over Aramis’ head, and gently pushes him down to sit on the bed, so he can take off his boots as well. It’s nothing he’s never done before – Athos has watched him do the same twice already, has watched him disrobe Aramis and put him to bed … this time is rather different, though.

Aramis is still dazed from his orgasm, his eyes still hazy and unfocused, but Athos is rather sure he would not put up any resistance if his mind was clearer. He smiles whenever Porthos touches him, seems to be eager for even the lightest contact, and Athos barely takes the time to take off his own jacket ere he kneels down by the bed to help Porthos rid Aramis of his trousers.

Aramis falls onto his back with a little sigh, and Athos watches him close his eyes when he lifts his hips for them.

Porthos, practical as ever, pulls down Aramis’ undergarments while he’s at it, and then their friend is lying on the bed in front of them, naked and beautiful, the fading bruises and scratches on him only adding to his appeal, and Athos needs a moment to get a grip on himself and calm down his heart rate.

“You alright?” Porthos asks him quietly, and Athos closes his eyes and nods as a helpless smile takes over his features.

“Yes,” he says, his voice refusing to convey the depth of his emotion, “I am merely not at all used to feeling like this.”

Porthos brushes a kiss to his lips, and rids Athos of his shirt as soon as they part, then pulls his own up and over his head, lets it drop to the floor where he stands. “It’ll get better.”

Athos huffs softly. “That is what I am afraid of.”

When he turns his head to look, Aramis is gazing up at them, still with a dazed expression, his smile ecstatic. “Join me?”

Porthos chuckles and grins down at him, an almost disconcerting spark in his eyes. “We’re about to.”


	11. Chapter 11

Athos and Porthos undress each other, as they have done so often before – now with the additional benefit of Aramis watching them. Athos feels secure under his eyes, but his heart rate still spikes up, be it from arousal or the sheer proximity to the two men he loves more than life itself. 

Aramis pushes up to his elbows to get a better look at the way Porthos’ hands glide over Athos’ chest, and he seems unable to stop the smile from stretching his lips. “I knew you’d look good together,” he says, sounding enraptured, and watches with bated breath the movement of Athos’ fingers on the lacing of Porthos’ trousers.

The fire Porthos has kindled in the hearth is crackling quietly behind them, adding a warm glow to Porthos’ skin. Despite the state of his arousal Athos takes his time in undressing Porthos, and pauses the movement of his fingers while he lets his eyes roam. When he indulges too long for Aramis’ liking, he pushes up into a sitting position, apparently unable to wait for them without interfering. “May I?”

It seems to occur to him that those are the same words Athos spoke earlier while he was down on his knees for Aramis – or maybe he is merely falling back into his fear of intruding where he is not welcome, for he flushes, and bites his lip. “I mean I –“

Athos and Porthos share a glance, then Porthos moves to stand in front of the bed. “Go ahead then. Help me out.”

Aramis releases his lip from between his teeth and immediately reaches out to him, his fingers not quite as steady as usual, but still steady enough. He unlaces Porthos’ trousers, and then his undergarments – and looks up at Porthos, so clearly asking for permission that Athos has to take a deep breath to keep his wits from abandoning him.

“Go on,” he hears Porthos say, voice low and gentle. “Push ‘em down.”

Aramis seems to be glad to do as he is told. He slides his fingers underneath the hem of Porthos undergarments, his skin pale against Porthos’, and carefully strokes the fabric off Porthos’ hips.

The bed is too low a construction to give him any choice as to staring, so he does. Reverently. His eyes widen ever so slowly as they take in Porthos’ girth and length, and Athos watches him swallow, and lick his lips.

When he finally looks up, he immediately gazes over to Athos, very nearly pouting. “And you never told me?”

Athos can only blink at him, while Porthos chuckles. “He’s a proper gentleman. You know that.”

With that he steps away from the bed and out of his clothing, leaving Athos the only one still wearing his trousers. Aramis makes no demand to help him as well, and he looks a little lost without Porthos to hold on to. Since Athos has a vague notion why that might be the case – why Aramis is still so hesitant to demand anything of him – Athos moves to stand in front of him without being asked. “I offer my apologies.”

“And somethin’ else besides,” Porthos comments gleefully, and steps behind Athos, looks down at Aramis over Athos’ shoulder, radiating heat and security.

For a moment, Aramis does not move, and Athos reaches down, offers him his hand. He waits until Aramis reaches out to him in turn, again so hesitant to touch; then Athos pulls him closer until Aramis’ fingertips graze the lacing of his trousers.

His arousal flares up at the touch, and he bites his tongue and keeps as still as possible as Aramis sets to work, loosens the lacing, and lays him bare. Athos cannot but study Aramis’ face while his hands are busy on him, the muted light in Aramis’ eyes, like that of glowing embers, the way his lips are slightly parted, looking soft and inviting in the firelight.

He presents an appealing picture, and Athos has to bite his bottom lip to refrain from moving as Aramis’ knuckles graze his hardening cock. When Porthos steps closer, he leans into him with a grateful sigh, immediately steadied.

It is very quiet in the room, the crackling of the fire and their breathing the only sound to disturb the silence for a very long moment.

“There you go,” Porthos says at length, his voice gritty with arousal, and crouches down to pull Athos’ trousers down his legs. He is assisted by Aramis, who seems to have found something at least resembling his usual self-assuredness now that it is so very obvious that Athos does not merely pretend to want him.

Athos steps out of his clothes, a little nervous suddenly, feeling self-aware and out of his depth beneath the hungry gaze Aramis is levelling at him. He still flushes when Porthos looks at him, sometimes, and Aramis … Aramis’ eyes – he looks as though he still does not believe that he is allowed to have this.

The realization brings Athos out of his shyness and he takes a deep breath. “What do you want, Aramis?”

Aramis’ gaze snaps up to Athos’ eyes, and he swallows, heavily. “I –“

“Please,” Athos says gently, “tell us.”

He cannot be sure that his own desire does not bleed into his voice as he says the words, and when Aramis hangs his head and avoids both their eyes, Athos remembers how it was for him in the beginning – how he could not bring himself to ask Porthos for anything.

“Come on,” Porthos urges Aramis, just as gentle as Athos was before, “just spit it out.”

“I want … you both,” Aramis says, his voice barely raised above a whisper, and Athos can _feel_ Porthos starting to grin beside him. His own mouth quirks up at the corners, always inclined to follow Porthos’ good example.

“Then you’ll have us both, simple as that,” Porthos says, and Athos has to hold back a groan, the very idea making his blood boil.

Aramis lifts his head back up, and his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes almost all pupil again – as black as the sky on the night of a new moon. “I want … I want you to fuck me – both of you.”

His words cause Athos to go hot all over, his skin feeling too tight for his body all of a sudden, nearly failing to keep him trapped – and he fears that it might show, that Aramis can look at him and know precisely what he is doing to him.

Porthos’ grin only widens. “Then you better tell me where you keep that oil you bought.”

Aramis tells him, and Porthos moves to obtain it, his steps closely followed by Aramis’ gaze, but only for a moment. Athos notices how Aramis’ eyes are in constant motion – from him to Porthos and back again. As though he is unable to make up his mind whom of them he wants to commit to memory – whom he wants more.

The thought propels Athos into movement, makes him step closer to the bed – and now Aramis’ gaze is _fixed_ on him, unwavering and hungry, yet still with that vulnerable tentativeness – still afraid of not being allowed to touch him, afraid of being rebuked.

It pulls at Athos, the very idea that Aramis holds him in such regard that he deems himself unfit to touch him, makes Athos set his knee upon the mattress and lower himself onto it – makes him push Aramis down and cover him with his body, giving him no choice but to lay his hands on him.

The sudden contact leaves Aramis gasping for air – but he does touch Athos. He allows his hands to roam over Athos’ back and shoulders, and down his upper arms, cupping Athos’ elbows as he lifts his head to kiss him. His thumbs stroke the skin in the crook of Athos’ arms, as his tongue glides over Athos’ lips and between them, sweet and tentative. After a while he moves his hands back up Athos’ arms again, caressing the curve of his shoulders and stroking down along his sides, until his hands reach Athos’ hips, and come to rest there. Athos feels Aramis’ fingertips dig into his skin as their mouths part, as though he is trying to anchor himself, trying to keep his hands where they are now that he has found a safe haven to rest them.

“I am not untouchable,” Athos whispers to him, his voice heavy with emotion, “please do not treat me as such.”

Aramis’ eyes widen at the words, and he swallows – and then he rolls them over, comes to kneel between Athos’ spread legs and starts to kiss down his torso, while his hands stroke everywhere they can reach, his palms rough and warm, and infinitely tender. The touch of his mouth is no mere light brush of lips, but leaves real, thorough kisses, wet and unrestrained, and his beard leaves red marks on Athos’ skin, sends sparks of pleasure down to his cock.

Athos’ breath locks in his throat, and then he moans, struggles to keep still when Aramis’ mouth reaches his belly, and his tongue dips into Athos’ navel, as his nails scratch lightly down his torso.

Athos’ hands come up and he threads his fingers into Aramis’ hair, grips it tightly and holds on to him. It makes Aramis gasp again, that sudden pull, and he opens his mouth, licks over the sensitive skin below Athos’ navel, lets his teeth graze over it until Athos’ believes he might shake apart under the sensation.

“If you make him come from that he won’t be able to fuck you,” Porthos comments from the side of the bed, and Aramis’ eyes snap up to Athos’, seem to beg him for directions – send a shiver down Athos’ spine.

Still, he manages a smile. “He is correct.”

So he pulls Aramis up to him, amazed by the willingness with which Aramis allows himself to be steered, and tries to calm them down with a kiss, gentle and soothing, avoiding their usual loss of control. Feeling Aramis sigh against his lips does much to restore Athos’ balance, and he puts his arms around Aramis, just to hold him – to feel him against his body and revel in the sensation.

“You’re somethin’ else – both of you,” Porthos says, and then Athos feels the mattress dip at his right hip, feels Porthos’ heat all along his side a few heartbeats later.

He turns his head to look at him, and receives a kiss, greedily opens his mouth when Porthos’ tongue glides over is lips. He hears Aramis take a hasty breath, and pulls his arms closer around him, lets his hands stroke down his back until his fingertips just barely graze the curve of Aramis’ ass. They meet Porthos’ hand there, and when Athos breaks the kiss and lifts his head to look, he sees that Porthos has spread his fingers wide over Aramis’ rear, his middle finger stroking up and down Aramis’ cleft, slightly pressing down when he brushes over his entrance.

No wonder Aramis is gasping for air.

Athos groans and closes his eyes for a moment – opens them again when Porthos kisses his cheek. “You want me to get him ready for you?”

This time Aramis is the one to groan, pushes his hips down and rubs up against Athos’ cock, and Porthos transfers his attention over to him – grins at Aramis without even a hint of mercy, “You like the idea?”

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, his voice raw, helpless to hide his arousal, “yes, please, Porthos, I want you to open me up for him, please – do it now, do it –“ He stretches out to kiss him, and Porthos meets him halfway, licks a moan right off Aramis’ lips and kisses him so thoroughly that Athos thinks he might reach his climax just from watching them.

They break apart just in the nick of time, and Athos’ breath hitches when Porthos pushes his hips forward, rubs his cock against Athos’ hip. “Porthos, are you – are you alright with –“

“I wanna watch you fuck him,” Porthos interrupts him bluntly, “wanna see that more than anythin’.” A grin takes over his mouth, spilling light from his eyes. “I can wait my turn.”

With that he produces the bottle of oil, pulls the cork out with his teeth, and coats his fingers with the fragrant liquid. Warmth spills down into Athos’ gut at the smell, and he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down. Aramis’ closeness and Porthos’ proximity are upsetting his self-control in a manner that almost overwhelms his senses – too good to believe, too blissful to be true.

When Porthos reaches out his hand to Aramis once more to press his slick fingertips to Aramis’ hole, to push in without even a moment of doubt, both Aramis and Athos groan, and hold on to each other for support.

“Are you alright?” Athos asks once he’s got his breath back, and Aramis nods, his bottom lip between his teeth, an expression of utter concentration on his features.

“He’s tight,” Porthos comments in a devious tone of voice, “you’re gonna enjoy fuckin’ him, love.”

“You filthy –“ Aramis starts – and then Porthos crooks his finger inside him, and he whines, helpless and needy, unable to get out another word.

“Gentle, Porthos,” Athos admonishes him, very much in earnest, but unable to keep the smile off his lips, “we want him to enjoy himself.”

“Oh, he’s enjoyin’ this alright,” Porthos murmurs, but he stretches up to brush a kiss to Aramis’ cheek, soft and soothing. “You good?”

“Spectacular,” Aramis grinds out, his cheeks flushed, and strands of hair hanging into his eyes. He already looks wrecked, “just, ah – just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Porthos grins and kisses him once more, on the lips this time – crooks his finger again and carefully adds a second one.

Aramis whines and gasps, and goes utterly boneless against Athos – spills out above him like a particularly attractive blanket, trapping Athos’ cock between them, offering just enough friction to further Athos’ arousal.

“You are supposed to put him back together in case I break him,” Athos murmurs, and kisses Aramis’ forehead, tries to hide the fact that his heart is attempting to break out of the cage of his ribs, “what do you think you are doing?”

“Gettin’ him all nice and slick so he won’t break in the first place,” Porthos replies, his voice husky, but full of delight nevertheless. “A good idea, yeah?”

“Very,” comes Aramis’ voice from the region of Athos’ chest, where he has rested his head. “Has Athos ever told you that your fingers feel amazing when you use them like this?”

“Not in so many words,” Porthos smiles, and winks at Athos, “but I got the idea.”

Athos would blush, if he had any blood to spare.

He looks down at Aramis, and finds that he is being watched from under drooping lids. “He’s so good at this,” Aramis murmurs, and his hips are trembling against Athos’, “n-no wonder you couldn’t, ah, couldn’t resist him …”

Athos smiles and lifts his hand to brush the hair out of Aramis’ face. “It was not this particular skill that captured me.”

Next to him, he hears Porthos huff in fond amusement, and he turns his head to look at him – to see the way the corners of Porthos’ eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“I was just tryin’ to help out a friend,” Porthos says, manages to look solemn and innocent for a moment, ere his control breaks and he grins again. “You were the one givin’ me all confusin’ signals.” He looks at Aramis, gently works his fingers deeper into him. “You have no idea how I felt, touchin’ him that first time – he was –“ He stops and bites his lip, and leans in to press a kiss to Athos’ shoulder. “You are so beautiful when you let go, you have no idea.”

Athos closes his eyes to take a hold of the turmoil Porthos has exerted on his emotions, but he cannot fail to hear Aramis whisper, “He’s always beautiful.”

“Yes,” Porthos agrees immediately, “he is. But you’ll see what I mean once he’s inside you.”

Athos pushes his hips up at the words, unable to control himself, and Aramis moans, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Athos’ chest. “I was so jealous of you both … so, ah, so jealous …”

“I know,” Porthos whispers, “we’ll take good care of you tonight, just you wait and see. You won’t have any reason for jealousy in the future.”

Athos forces his eyes shut so hard that he can see stars explode behind his lids. Goosebumps are trickling down his spine while Aramis’ hot breath is gliding over his skin, sending spirals of need out into his blood.

Aramis is starting to move above him, to push back against Porthos’ fingers, forcing them deeper inside his body, and the friction is too much and yet not nearly enough. Athos rubs up against him, trying to get closer, and Aramis moans, opens his mouth and licks over Athos’ chest – digs his teeth into his skin, panting, while his hands roam over every inch of it they can reach, unable to keep still. “I just, ah – I can’t believe you’re allowing me to come this close to you. I thought … I thought you’d … you’d be so disappointed if I even asked …”

It costs Athos a vast amount of effort to open his eyes and look at him, and he buries both hands in Aramis’ hair, strokes his thumbs over Aramis’ cheeks. His body feels as though it might fly away from him, freeing his heart from the flesh that binds it, but his mind is startlingly clear, and the words come easily, “I cannot believe you expected me to neglect you,” he says softly, can feel his lips stretch into a helpless little smile. He smoothes his fingers through Aramis’ hair, looks him in the eyes, strangely at peace with what he is about to say, “We care about you so deeply, Aramis. Never hide yourself away again in such a manner.”

“I won’t,” Aramis moans, and Athos watches his eyes glaze over, feels the way his muscles start to shiver and twitch, “I promise you, I won’t.”

“He’s almost ready,” Porthos says quietly, while Athos strokes his fingers through Aramis’ hair, trying to soothe them both by doing so. “Are you two gonna be alright? You look a bit … feverish.”

“I’m going to be fine as soon as he’s inside me,” Aramis pants, licks his lips and bites them – red and slick from kissing. Athos’ cock twitches at the sight, and Aramis kisses his chest, looks up at him through his lashes. He is not yet hard again, but the look in his eyes tells Athos clearly enough that the cause for that are the limitations of his body, and not a lack of arousal.

“What about you, love?” Porthos murmurs, right next to Athos’ ear. “You want him bad, don’t you?”

“Ah, Porthos, you fiend, you’re making it worse!” Aramis complains, and he twitches against Athos, hides his face against Athos’ chest.

Athos manages a smile. “I believe I will be fine as soon as I am inside him.”

His rewards are a helpless groan from Aramis, and a kiss from Porthos, sweet and steadying, utterly loving. “That you will,” Porthos whispers, leans forward and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ left shoulder. “You want one more finger, or are you ready to go?”

“I’m ready,” Aramis pants, and pushes his hips up, “I can’t wait anymore.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Porthos admonishes him, spreads his fingers inside Aramis and twists his wrist, “but I think you’re good to go.”

Aramis groans and smiles against Athos’ chest, lifts his chin and brushes his lips to the hollow of his throat. “How do you want me?”

Athos thinks back to the times he has been with Porthos, to all the different ways and means Porthos used to make him feel good. “On your back, beneath me,” he says softly. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Aramis replies, just as softly, his voice just as unsteady as Athos’, “I want … I want to see your face.”

“Just that,” Athos confirms. When he turns his head to look at Porthos, he encounters an expression of such fierce devotion that it makes his heart leap up and into his throat, sends shivers of heat all through his body.

“Never thought I’d have somethin’ like this,” Porthos tells him, voice calm and steady, and smiles at Athos. “Thank you both for provin’ me wrong.” He pulls his fingers out of Aramis, gentle and careful, and helps Athos and Aramis to turn around on the bed, steadies them with both hands. Once Athos is settled between Aramis’ spread legs, Porthos strokes his hand over Athos’ hip and hands him the oil – watches while Athos prepares himself for Aramis.

He takes the bottle from him when Athos is finished, and quietly puts it away, smiles when Athos’ eyes meet his own. “Go on then – show me.”

Athos has done this before; he has been on his back for Porthos, and he has knelt above him, but the way Aramis is gazing up at him, his expression almost _innocent_ in its disbelieving awe – Porthos never looked at him like that.

But Athos can hardly ask Aramis to cease and desist, does not know what to tell him to make him understand that he _deserves_ this, that Athos is in no manner above him, and never was.

There are no words to ask Aramis whether he is ready, either. Athos can tell that Aramis’ body is ready for him from the way Aramis’ thighs fall open, can tell from the way his lids droop, and from the steady up and down of his chest – while the expression in Aramis’ eyes still speaks of lingering doubt.

So Athos lifts Aramis’ legs, pushes his knees up towards his chest, and lines himself up. He ignores the way his heart tries to crawl its way up his throat, concentrates only on Aramis’ eyes, on the trust and affection they exude, and then he pushes in, slowly, oh so slowly, breaches the tight ring of muscle to get to the heat behind it – stops and keeps still.

Aramis’ eyes have widened, and Athos cannot tell whether his expression speaks of pain or of something else, forces himself to take a deep breath. “Aramis?”

“Don’t stop.” Aramis’ voice is hoarse, and his tone is pleading. “Please, Athos – don’t stop, I need – I need –“

So Athos resumes moving, and Aramis’ mouth falls shut, as his eyes turn liquid and dark with pleasure. And then Athos is all the way inside, feels Aramis’ heat spread out into his own body, and he stops once more, remains poised above Aramis, with his hands left and right of Aramis’ head. He is overflowing with need, and a deep sense of overwhelmed gratefulness that only intensifies the longer he gazes down into Aramis’ face.

Porthos’ touch to his back comes as a shock to his system, throws him out of balance and upsets his nerves – but when they resettle, they do so in a more orderly fashion than before, and Athos’ breathing goes a little easier as Porthos spreads his fingers wide over his back, and gently rubs his palm over Athos’ sweaty skin.

Aramis is tight and hot around his cock, he is gazing up at him with helpless affection, and if it weren’t for Porthos and his closeness, Athos might find himself unable to accept it. Things being as they are, he smiles, and moves his hips, ever so slightly. “Aramis?”

Aramis blinks a few times, his eyes suspiciously wet, and he clears his throat rather thoroughly. “You’re, ah, entirely unexpected,” Aramis tells Athos, trying to sound light-hearted, and failing quite spectacularly “amazing, really, I don’t … I don’t know how to – _God_ , Athos, your eyes …”

“Told you,” Porthos comments, satisfaction dripping off the words. He strokes his hand over Athos’ back, lets his fingertips press into his skin. “Told you, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Aramis admits – moans the word, stretches it as far as it will go, “yes, you told me, but I never thought – I couldn’t believe –“

“You better believe it,” Porthos interrupts him roughly, and his hand glides up and down on Athos’ back, warm and grounding. “Go on, love – show him.”

Athos lets out the air he’d kept locked in his lungs and starts to move then – moves his hips against Aramis’, mindful not to hurt him, looking out for any sign of distress. When none come, he dares to move a little faster, back and forth, establishes a smooth, thorough rhythm, and tries not to spill from the sheer _awareness_ of being inside Aramis.

Aramis’ gaze stays fixed on his face, and he rarely blinks, drinks in everything, every change in expression Athos offers him, every blink, and every quiver of lip. Athos stares back, unable to look away, and it feels as though his whole being gets drawn in by that unwavering gaze – it feels as though he is consumed in his entirety, given to Aramis to do with as he pleases.

Athos does not fight the sensation; he lets himself fall and allows the lust to take over, to claim him as offering. His hips snap forward a little faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only sound beside their laboured breathing.

Then Aramis shudders, and closes his eyes, causing Athos to pause in his movements. He watches Aramis push his head back, and curve up against him in one smooth bow, watches him expose his neck and blindly reach out to grab Athos’ shoulders. “I … I can’t, oh God _Athos_ , I can’t –“

Athos folds him nearly in half as he bends lower over him, to kiss his neck, to drag his lips over Aramis’ pulse and whisper into his ear. “What is it – tell me, Aramis, tell me what you need.”

He can feel Aramis’ breath hitch, and then Aramis’ head comes up, and they are kissing, wet, and open-mouthed, and greedy. Athos is barely able to move in this position, but it does not matter. The way Aramis is sucking on his tongue pushes him towards his release at a speed that leaves him panting, turns his blood to liquid fire inside his veins.

Aramis tightens around his cock, clamps down on him like a vice, and Athos has to break their kiss to gasp for air. His eyes remain wide open while he struggles to regain control over himself – and then Porthos strokes along his back once more, slow and deliberate. “You got him hard again, love.”

He takes his hand off Athos’ back to reach between him and Aramis, closes his fingers around Aramis’ cock, and circles his thumb over the tip. “Feels good to have him inside you, eh?” he murmurs, and Athos watches Aramis nod, his expression open, unguarded. Aramis’ cheeks are flushed, and his hair is hanging into his face; his eyes are glazed over and hungry; his lips are bitten red and shiny – and they part greedily as Porthos leans in to kiss him.

Athos watches, closer to them than he was ever before, and when he hears Aramis moan, he moans as well, does not fight the forward-snap of his hips. He’d never thought watching anyone kiss could make him feel so helpless with arousal, but to watch Porthos’ tongue glide into Aramis’ mouth and _plunder_ it sends shivers down Athos’ spine, and he is almost disappointed when Porthos draws back at last.

“Now,” Porthos whispers, his voice husky, as low as it can get, “what do you need from him, Aramis? Do you want him to take his time and fuck you sweet and slow until you beg him to give it to you –“ He strokes his hand up and down Aramis’ hard cock, just as slow and deliberate as he moved it over Athos’ back, and Athos can feel how it makes Aramis’ shiver, how it causes him to twitch and go even tighter than before. “Or do you need a good, hard fuck first?”

Aramis groans and closes his eyes, and his mouth twists into a smile – as aroused as it is helpless. “You’re so much, ah – so much closer to perfection than I’d dared to imagine, my dear Porthos.”

Porthos grins and kisses his shoulder, and Aramis licks his lips. “I believe, it is –“ his breath hitches and he moans, “it is for Athos to decide what he wants to, ah, to do with me.”

“We asked you what you _need_ ,” Athos reminds him softly, and moves his hips gently back and forth, “we can hardly decide for you what you need.”

“But you _know_ ,” Aramis whispers, lifts his lashes and looks up at Athos with eyes that seem to burn in the low light of the room, “you knew when you made me kiss Porthos, and you know now – you always know.”

A ghost of his usual smile lurks in the corners of his eyes, daring and playful, but so weak as to be almost unnoticeable. Aramis is not trying to hide it, it is just that the trust and love it has to compete with are far stronger, at least for the moment.

Athos moves when he detects that smile, straightens his upper body and releases Aramis from the cramped position their kiss had forced him into. “As you wish.”

Aramis’ smile widens and becomes more pronounced, and Athos starts to move in earnest. He is holding on to Aramis’ hips with both hands, no longer able to contain his body’s need. Aramis groans and moves his hips to counter Athos’ thrusts, bites down on his lip in a failing attempt to keep in a whimper. The whimper turns into a whine when Porthos lets go of Aramis’ cock to place his hand on Athos’ back again, just above the swell of his ass.

Athos can feel Porthos’ eyes on him as he moves, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Aramis, searching his face for a reaction as he angles his hips, intent on providing Aramis with as much pleasure as possible.

It is so easy to be with him – feels as natural and implicit as it felt to kiss him, and now that Aramis is no longer afraid to touch, now that he is finally too aroused to deny himself the pleasure of opening up, Athos himself loses any and all reserve.

Porthos’ hand on his back guides his movements, subtle and gentle, and then Aramis gasps, throws his head back on the pillow and bucks his hips, his whole body a taut line of ecstasy, pre-come glistening on the tip of his straining cock.

“Well done,” Porthos murmurs appreciatively, sounding impossibly proud, and Athos flushes with pleasure at the praise.

He cannot be sure if his body will be able to contain the lust and love fighting for dominance over his soul – so he lets go. His hips snap forward, one, two, three times, always hitting that spot, reducing Aramis to incoherent swearing, leaving him gasping for air, until he can barely raise his voice above a whimper anymore.

Athos aches with how much he wants him, and he does not even notice the strain he puts on his muscles, takes no note of the force behind his movements. Aramis is enjoying himself, is writhing in pleasure, and nothing else matters.

His release is imminent, already in reach, so close that Athos can feel it at the base of his spine; but he cannot allow himself to fall, is too entranced by the way Aramis shakes apart beneath him, so beautiful and shameless in his arousal that Athos fails to find the words to describe him.

“Come on then, love,” he hears Porthos whisper, “you’ve earned yourself the pleasure – let him feel you fill him up.” With that he moves his hand a little lower on Athos’ back, strokes over his ass and lets his fingers glide along his cleft: pushes gently against Athos’ entrance.

There is not enough strength in the world to help Athos resist from giving in to that. He goes under gradually, peculiarly aware of his surroundings, trapped between Aramis’ tight heat and the gentle pressure of Porthos’ hand. His eyes stay open and fixed on Aramis’ face, and he can see how close Aramis himself is to coming, how much it affects him to feel Athos’ release inside of him.

Aramis’ chest is heaving, and after the first few seconds he starts to look stunned, brings back that expression of disbelief and awe Athos knows so well by now.

“Athos,” he whispers, and then again, “Athos” – as though he is only now realizing what they are doing, as though he has finally understood what this _means_.

Athos can only smile at him. His heart is too full, overflowing, keeping his words safely trapped inside his chest.

He has stopped moving, is once more poised above Aramis, in the perfect position to observe the flow of emotion across Aramis’ face, and he can feel his strength leaving him, and be replaced with satisfied exhaustion. “Are you alright?”

Aramis nods, and Athos does not comment on the sudden wetness to his eyes – not yet spilling over, but noticeable, all the same.

“I am going to pull out,” Athos says, not quite sounding like himself – too peaceful, too relaxed – and he puts his hand to Aramis’ cheek, “if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Aramis tells him, and he smiles, a little shaken. “I’m going to be fine.”

So Athos pulls out, slowly and carefully – and then immediately bends low over Aramis to kiss him again – to kiss away that slight feeling of unease that comes from being empty.

Aramis sighs against his mouth and lets himself be kissed, puts his arms around Athos’ neck and holds him close – his fingers shaking with suppressed arousal and the need to find completion. Athos interrupts their kiss to let his lips glide over Aramis’ cheek and along his jaw line – lets his mouth glide to the spot directly beneath Aramis’ ear, and places a kiss there. “Shall I leave you to Porthos now? I believe we have neglected him for far too long.”

Aramis interrupts his nuzzling of Athos’ neck and turns his head to the side to look at Porthos. “But will he take good care of me?” His voice sounds a bit strained, but there is enough of the old Aramis in it to inspire Athos to a fond smile.

“Very good care,” he promises Aramis solemnly, turning his head as well to gauge Porthos’ reaction.

Porthos is smiling at them, his dimples impossible to miss with the way the firelight puts them on display, while his eyes look rather dangerous – dark and predatory, and full of promises Athos knows he is going to keep with meticulous attention to detail. “Take your time, I don’t wanna rush you.”

Aramis laughs, breathless, and helpless, and clings to Athos a little harder. “He’s going to ruin me.”

“Thoroughly, yes,” Athos agrees softly, and kisses Aramis’ temple. “I believe you will enjoy it.” He looks down into Aramis’ eyes and smiles at him. “Are you ready?”

Aramis returns the smile, lets it light up his eyes, and lifts his hands to draw Athos down for another kiss. “I seem to have trouble letting you go.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Athos assures him – reaches down between them to close his hand around Aramis’ cock, “I want to see you come, after all.”

Next to them Porthos growls, while Aramis closes his eyes and whines, and pushes up into Athos’ hand. “Athos, you’ve got to – I can’t help myself when you’re so –“

“Heh, I’ve never seen him so overcome before,” Porthos comments, humour lightening his tone ere it dips down into seriousness, “but it’s really no wonder with the way you’re treatin’ him, love – have mercy on him and let me take over, yeah?”

“Gladly,” Athos murmurs, but he lets his thumb glide over the tip of Aramis’ cock, spreads the pre-come, and reaches down to cup his balls – just to watch Aramis react to it, to see the helpless longing and arousal on his face. When he finally lets go, Aramis’ eyes turn wide and frightened for a moment, as though he has dropped into a nightmare; so Athos makes sure to stay as close to him as possible while he resettles on the bed, keeps touching and stroking him, and rolls onto his side next to Aramis once he has stretched out on the mattress on his left. “Still here.”

“I don’t –” Aramis blinks his eyes and shakes his head a little, as though he is trying to clear it, “I don’t know why I’m being this silly – it’s just –“

“We know,” Porthos interrupts him gently, “you don’t have to explain yourself.” With that he lifts himself up and takes Athos’ place between Aramis’ legs, puts his left hand down next to Aramis’ head, and his right down to where Athos’ release is still slowly leaking out of Aramis’ hole. He rubs his thumb through it, and allows a dark, hungry grin to take over his face. “And I know just how to make it better.”

If Athos hadn’t just come, Porthos’ behaviour would get him hard again in a manner of seconds. He watches Aramis’ cock twitch, watches a shiver run through Aramis’ body, and places a soothing hand on Aramis’ belly, kisses his shoulder.

“Do you need a moment?” Porthos asks Aramis, earnest in his care, even now. “Or do you want me to fill you up right away?”

Aramis smiles up at him, full of simple, honest affection – and manages a wink. “You think that big cock of yours will make it all better, yes?”

Porthos grins back. “You don’t?” His grin turns devious. “I can give it to Athos if you don’t want it …”

“Ah, no – no no no, give it here!”

Porthos laughs when Aramis crosses his ankles beneath his ass to pull him closer, and leans down to brush a kiss to Aramis’ lips. “You can have all of me, you know that, right?” His fingertips stroke lightly over Aramis’ entry, caressing, not teasing, and Aramis sighs and closes his eyes.

“You’re worse than Athos.”

Athos kisses his shoulder again, and the corners of Aramis’ mouth turn upwards in a smile. “You’re ruining me – both of you.”

“You wanna slick me up?” Porthos asks him, his playful tone suggesting he knows precisely what those words are doing to Aramis, and Athos hides his smile against Aramis’ shoulder when Aramis groans.

“Yes, I want to – give me that bottle!”

Porthos chuckles at his imperious tone and does as he is told, but even he cannot keep in a moan when Aramis wraps his oil-slick fingers around his cock, and moves his hand up and down on him – very meticulous in his preparations.

“God, you’re – you’re _beautiful_ ,” Aramis tells him, his gaze fixed on Porthos’ cock, and Athos is staring as well, cannot deny that the familiar sight of Porthos in this state is only improved by Aramis’ fingers wrapping around his arousal, looking pale in contrast to Porthos’ dark, flushed skin.

“You wanna look at it some more?” Porthos asks the question with a bashful little grin tugging at his lips that stands in stark contrast to the hungry light in his eyes. When Aramis lifts his chin to gaze up at him, Athos can almost pinpoint the exact moment they lose themselves inside each other.

There is no fear or shyness between them, no awe. Their love is fierce and deep – and yet too simple and straightforward to pose as an obstacle in their path.

“I want to look at all of you,” Aramis replies with a twinkling smile, “but I believe I’ll have you inside me first, and indulge later, yes?”

Porthos grins and gives him a kiss. “Sounds good to me.”

“Good,” Aramis echoes, locks his ankles behind Porthos’ ass once more, and pulls him in, “come on then – come inside and let me feel you.”

“Don’t rush me,” Porthos teases, and then turns earnest for a moment, purses his lips in contemplation, “You want on top and ride me?”

For a heartbeat or two, Aramis looks precariously close to being overwhelmed by his emotions, and he turns his head to the side to look at Athos. “Is he always like this?”

Athos smiles at him. “Invariably, yes.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Porthos grouses, and nudges his hips forward, reminding Aramis of the state of their arousal. “Just tell me.”

“I want to lie beneath you as you ravish me, you brute,” Aramis replies, and his voice sounds strained again, and yet full of mischief, “anything else would overtax me right now, I fear.”

Porthos grins at him, “I doubt that – but be that as it may, you get your wish.” He leans down and softly kisses Aramis’ chest, reaches between Aramis’ legs and pushes his fingers into his tight heat, gently probing and making sure that Aramis is still loose enough for him – pulling out to add a little oil after a moment, pushing back in to spread his fingers inside Aramis.

Aramis presses his head back into the pillow and whines, his exposed throat presenting too luring an invitation for Athos to refrain from kissing it. He watches as Porthos pulls his fingers back out, apparently satisfied, and then gazes on in rapt fascination as Porthos positions first Aramis’ left leg and then his right to rest in the crook of his arm, while Aramis is still panting, staring unseeing at the ceiling.

Athos feels almost peaceful, watching them. Watching Porthos lining himself up against Aramis’ entrance fills him with a deep sense of belonging – because he is here to witness it, because Aramis and Porthos both love him enough to show him how deeply they care … for each other, and for him.

So he reaches out, once Porthos is inside Aramis, once he has breached him and taken possession of his body – reaches out and holds on to both of them, unable to voice his gratefulness, but certain they know all the same. When they both turn their heads to look at him it almost overwhelms him, but he manages to keep his eyes open and return their gazes, secure in the knowledge that he has found something for himself that will remain with him for as long as they all live.


	12. Chapter 12

Porthos kneels between Aramis’ spread legs, eyes dark, skin shimmering in the firelight, and keeps himself still until Aramis gets used to the sensation of having him inside. Athos sees his muscles tense under the strain, feels it beneath the palm that he has placed on Porthos’ thigh, and bites his lip.

Athos marvels at it, admires Porthos’ unshakable resolution to be gentle and careful with the ones he loves, even if he has to force his body into submission. Athos seldom manages to keep control over himself when he is aroused, and from the looks of it, Aramis struggles with it as well. Porthos could do as he pleases with them, could be brutal and careless, and not only would they allow him to treat them in such a way, a part of them would certainly come to enjoy it.

Athos knows himself well enough to admit to that fact, and the scratches and bruises adorning Aramis’ skin tell their own tale.

And yet Porthos, who must know all that, simply refuses to lose control. Athos closes his eyes for a moment, strokes his hand over Porthos’ skin, and basks in the simple enjoyment of Aramis’ body next to his, smiles when he hears a helpless moan come over Aramis’ lips.

He blinks, looks up at Porthos through his lashes, exhausted and content, and wonders vaguely if it feels the same for Aramis as it always does for him – if he feels the same bliss, the same deep appreciation for having Porthos look down at him in such a manner, with an expression that speaks of love and trust, and offers all of his gentle heart.

Aramis certainly feels _something_ being treated to the sight: He sighs and lets his lashes droop, bites his lip. “Will you stop looking at me like that?”

“No,” Porthos says quietly, and moves, treats Aramis to a rather friendly push of his hips, “never.”

“But I might start to cry,” Aramis jokes, nearly succeeding in hiding the waver in his voice, “and what do you do then?”

“I’ll soothe you,” Porthos replies promptly, and moves his hips once more, “dry your tears and kiss it better.”

Aramis’ throat escapes a little sob, and he bares his throat to Porthos as his body curves up towards him. “You can’t kiss better what’s already, ah – what’s already perfect, my dear Porthos.”

Porthos grabs his hips and starts to move in earnest then, albeit slowly. “Are you tryin’ to sweet-talk me?”

The smile is so thick in his voice that it glides through Athos like molasses, adds to the pleasure and satisfaction his release left him with, and makes him smile in turn – makes Aramis smile as well. “I’m starting to believe that I’m not the sweet-talker in this – ah, relationship.”

“No?” Porthos asks, and now he is grinning, and Athos could drown in those dimples, experiences a peculiar desire to lick them. It must be the exhaustion.

Aramis opens his eyes just in time to witness that grin, too, and he groans, and pushes his whole body into Porthos’ next thrust. “No! Oh _God_ Athos, he’s horrible, why didn’t you warn me?”

Athos’ mouth draws into a sleepy smile. “And deprive you of the pleasure of finding out for yourself? Never.”

“Who’re you callin’ horrible?” Porthos growls, and lets his hands glide up on Aramis’ chest, playfully tweaks his nipples, “Eh? Say that again, I dare you.”

Aramis moans and bucks his hips, and his cock twitches, leaking drops of pre-come. Athos notes it with some interest, as does Porthos. “You like that, yeah?” He gently pinches Aramis’ nipples again, just to hear him whine out a breathy “yes” that sends shivers of warmth down Athos’ back.

Athos sees Porthos’ eyes gleam, and knows that he is storing that information away for later. For now Porthos merely smiles and nods to himself, and brings his hands back down to Aramis’ hips, grips them tightly. “You ready for a little bit more?”

“Yes,” Aramis’ looks a little dazed, “come and make me feel that big cock of yours – make me feel it for days.”

Porthos grins again, dangerous and hungry, and then his hips snap forward – so hard that even Athos can feel the power behind the thrust. He digs his fingertips into Porthos’ skin and then draws his hand back, giving Porthos space to move. Aramis moans and claws his fingers into the bedding, trying to find purchase, something to hold on to as Porthos fucks him into the mattress. He does not talk any more, does not get out anything besides whines and moans, as Porthos’ skin slaps against his, and his hands leave marks on Aramis’ hips.

Athos watches them, allows the heat to coil in his belly, stares unabashedly, and takes in every detail – how Porthos’ eyes are clear enough to tell Athos that he is in control even now, how Aramis is thoroughly lost to lust, writhing on the bed and offering himself up for Porthos as though he wants to be owned.

It goes on long enough to make Athos’ cock twitch and get half hard again – from the sounds that leave Aramis’ throat, from the way Porthos keeps slamming into him, hard enough to rock the whole bed with his force. Athos starts to feel shivery and weak with arousal, cannot stop staring at Aramis’ sweat-slicked body, looking utterly helpless beneath Porthos’ strong frame.

When Porthos stops moving all of a sudden, when he keeps still, his chest heaving under deep, laboured breaths, Athos finds that he needs the reprieve just as much as Aramis does.

“Hard enough for you?” Aramis shivers when Porthos asks the question, and Athos has to close his eyes. He has a vague notion that he is going to get fully hard again if this goes on for much longer. Porthos’ voice is low and gritty, full of passion, and when he raises it again, Athos reopens his eyes to look at him, needs so see his face, how he looks saying the words, “Will you be thinkin’ of me tomorrow – all day long?”

“Yes,” Aramis moans, and he lets go of the bedding and reaches up to Porthos, “yes, yes I will.”

Porthos bends down towards Aramis’ in answer to his wordless plea, and Aramis twists his fingers into Porthos’ curls and draws him into a kiss – surprisingly soft, achingly tender. Porthos smiles at him when they part, and brushes his lips to Aramis’ once more when he lets out a protesting whine. “You alright, my pretty?”

“You’re not … you’re not close enough,” Aramis whispers, the raw honesty in his voice sending tendrils of affection out into Athos’ blood.

Porthos blinks down at Aramis, and his smile turns helpless with love. “You want me to hold you?”

Athos supposes Aramis would blush if he had any blood to spare. Matters being as they are, he turns his head to the side to avoid Porthos’ gaze. “… Yes.”

Porthos kisses his cheek and bends lower, folds Aramis nearly in half to take him into his arms. “Come here you.”

He hugs Aramis to his chest, so gentle suddenly where he showed nothing but relentless ferocity only moments before, and Athos is not surprised in the least when Aramis clings to him like a child, hides his face against Porthos chest, and lets out a shuddering breath. “Porthos …”

“I got you, kitten,” Porthos murmurs into his ear – and Aramis laughs, breathless, almost soundless even, but his eyes, when he lifts his head to look at Porthos, are full of mirth.

“You want to, ah – want to keep me?”

“Forever,” Porthos promises him solemnly, and kisses his temple.

The sudden wetness in Aramis’ eyes doesn’t surprise Athos at all, and neither does the fact that his chest feels too tight to contain his heart as a result of Porthos’ simple declaration.

Aramis blinks at Porthos, one, two, three times, but his eyes do not clear, and he looks terribly young, all of a sudden, utterly vulnerable. “I’ve heard that promise before.”

“Not from me,” Porthos replies softly. He strokes his hands over Aramis’ back, and then lies him down on the mattress again, and straightens. “You think I’m gonna let you slip away again now that I’ve finally got you?”

Aramis does not say anything in return, simply looks up at him, eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.

“I won’t,” Porthos says, and there is no waver in his voice, not the slightest hint of doubt or hesitation. “For as long as you want me, I’m yours to have.” His hands are stroking over Aramis’ hips and up his thighs, squeezing gently. “And the same is true for Athos.” He turns his head to look at him, and a smile lights up his eyes, “Isn’t that right, love?”

Athos places his hand low on Aramis’ belly, and strokes his thumb over the soft skin he finds there. “Yes, it is.”

Even now Aramis keeps quiet, but his expression speaks of grateful acceptance, and Athos leans over him to taste it in his kiss – spreads his fingers wide on Aramis’ belly while his tongue glides over and in between his lips.

Porthos starts moving again while they kiss, and Aramis moans into Athos’ mouth, loops his arms around Athos’ neck and clings to him. Had Athos ever taken the time to consider the question, it would have severely taxed his imagination to envision Aramis behaving in such a way, yet he welcomes it gladly.

His fingertips dig into Aramis’ skin, and he welcomes every moan, every shiver Aramis fails to contain. Porthos is gentle now, moves his hips slowly and deliberately, and from the tiny whimpers getting lost against his lips, Athos concludes that he too has found that sweet spot that will turn Aramis mad with bliss.

He pushes his own hips forward and against Aramis’ body, fully hard again, and hears Porthos growl, “I wish you could see yourselves – wish you knew what you do to me when you –“

He stops, and Aramis whines. His whole body goes pliant, and his arms around Athos’ neck go lax. Athos releases his mouth so he can look at his face, and his heart leaps up into his throat when he realizes that there are no defences left in Aramis’ eyes – none at all – that he has finally come undone under their hands, that his soul is completely open to attack.

Athos closes his hand around him, tries to concentrate on the warm weight of Aramis’ cock against his palm instead of the fear of hurting someone he loves so dearly, and kisses Aramis’ cheek. “Do you need to come?”

Aramis’ breath hitches, and he seems to have trouble finding his voice. When he finally does find it, it is weak and raw, and the urge to protect him at any cost almost hurts Athos in its intensity.

“I don’t –” Aramis gets out, breathy and helpless, “I don’t want it to end.”

“Oh, kitten, it won’t,” Porthos whispers, his own voice so rough that it makes both Aramis and Athos moan, “it won’t end with you comin’, I promise.”

Athos’ hand tightens around Aramis’ cock at the words, and his own arousal only worsens. He closes his eyes and bites his lip, and pushes his face into Aramis’ neck.

“Let Athos take care of you, yeah?” Athos’ cock twitches, merely from the way Porthos says his name, and he moans against Aramis’ damp skin. There’s an audible smile in Porthos’ voice when he continues speaking, “He needs to come, too, you see – and if you ask him real nice, I bet he’s gonna come all over you.”

Athos has no idea how Porthos is still able to string his words together in a way that not only makes sense but sets his blood on fire. He feels Aramis’ cock twitch, feels drops of pre-come run down his fingers, and they groan together, both of them lost to Porthos’ voice, to the picture he has planted in their minds.

“I want – I want that,” Aramis grinds out, sends shivers of heat through Athos’ whole body. In all his life, he has never felt so out of control – never felt so utterly safe despite that.

“You heard him, love,” Porthos says roughly, and Athos nods, somehow manages to push himself up and kneel beside Aramis on the mattress, his mind hazy with arousal, intent on his goal.

Porthos stops in all movement, reaches out to steady him, and Athos’ mouth pulls into a smile. “Thank you.”

He notices Aramis looking up at him, at his face at first, but then his gaze travels lower and comes to rest on Athos’ groin, and he licks his lips while his eyes cloud over, pleading and needy. “Athos.”

The tone of his voice makes Athos shiver, and he lifts his hand and closes his fingers around his cock, already so close to coming that he can taste it. Aramis reaches out to him, touches his knee and strokes up his thigh, and Athos barely needs two twists of his wrist to find his release and come all over Aramis’ belly and chest.

How he finds the strength and presence of mind to reach out and take Aramis’ hand into his, twist their fingers around Aramis’ cock and make him come as well, he does not know.

He watches, watches Aramis’ body curve into a tight bow as he spills, watches until Aramis is spent, so enraptured that he almost forgets his own bliss. Then Aramis whispers Porthos’ name, begs him to fill him up, to mark him, too. Porthos promptly lets go of Athos’ shoulder, forcing Athos to hold himself up so Porthos can grab Aramis’ hips and give a few good thrusts ere he fulfils Aramis’ wish, and comes inside him, groaning and shivering – all his strength finally spent, his control lost.

For a minute or two, Athos is rather certain that he will never get his breath back. He watches Porthos pull out, watches how their release leaks out of Aramis, how his entire torso is covered in it, and then he more or less slumps over, lies down on the mattress and pulls Aramis into his arms, overwhelmed and utterly undone.

Porthos is the one to get up and see to it that they do not simply fall asleep as they are. He cleans them up, gentle and careful, covers their wet skin in kisses, and chuckles when they sigh with pleasure. When it is done and he lies down as well, he does so with a sigh of his own, thoroughly exhausted, but just as pleased.

Aramis makes a tiny noise of longing – apparently Porthos has left too much distance between them when he laid down – so Athos helps him to push up on his side and roll over and closer to Porthos, smiles when Aramis burrows into Porthos’ body like a kitten searching for warmth.

Porthos grunts, tired but very willing to humour him, and puts his arm around Aramis, pulls him closer and kisses his temple. “I’m ‘ere, I got you.”

His eyes meet Athos’ over Aramis’ shoulder, and when Athos detects a few tears in them, his smile turns soft, and he moves closer to him as well, closes the gap between him and Aramis, and presses their bodies flush together – takes Porthos’ hand in his and intertwines their fingers.

He does not say anything, but then, Porthos very seldom needs him to.

Silence settles over the room, peaceful and safe, but when Aramis stays quiet for longer than seems quite normal to Athos, he clears his throat and gives his voice a try. “Aramis, are you alright?”

“Yes,” comes the answer from the depths of Porthos’ embrace, “yes, I’m good.”

He sounds sleepy and content, and Athos smiles, and brushes a kiss to his shoulder.

“Is it too soon for declarations of love?” Aramis asks, still in that same voice, gradually gaining confidence. “I’ve … I’ve loved you for so long that I honestly can’t tell anymore.” He lifts his head, finally, and turns around, assisted by Porthos, looks at Athos with eyes that seem too dark and too vulnerable. “I know I went about this all wrong, but you must believe me when I tell you that I do indeed love you … with all my heart.“

Athos lifts his hand, and cups Aramis’ cheek, “I believe you, Aramis. I believe you.”

Aramis’ eyes light up at Athos’ words, and he surges in for a kiss, far too passionate for Athos’ state of mind, but he nevertheless tries to give back as good as he gets, allows Aramis to take possession of his mouth.

Porthos is watching them when they part, once more overcome by his emotions, and Athos smiles yet again when Porthos pushes his face into Aramis’ neck, not to hide his tears, but to let Aramis know that he is loved, too, that he always will be.

For years Athos’ face has been more of a mask than a true mirror of his emotions, only ever breaking into a smile when Aramis and Porthos gave him reason to. Now Athos feels like his mask is not only slipping but vanishing altogether, and he cannot hide himself from Aramis, is entirely unable to conceal the state of his heart.

It frightens him, yet there is a certain sense of invincibility attached to the experience.

He is safe with Aramis and Porthos – safe with his friends.

So Athos allows Aramis to look at him as his armour is being stripped away, and the fear in his chest is gradually evaporating – burned up and pushed out by affection.

“Porthos, he’s looking at me like that again,” Aramis whispers, and he sounds a little nervous, despite his joking tone, sounds awed, and overcome.

“Yeah,” Porthos replies gruffly, and finally lifts his head, “he does that.” His voice is thick with unshed tears, and he stretches his hand out to stroke his fingers through Athos’ hair, causes Athos to close his eyes and lean into the touch. “But to be fair, you did just tell him that you love him.”

Aramis escapes a little laugh, and he nods, leans his forehead against Athos’, lets out a shaky breath. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did,” Porthos says, “and now I’m the one who’s cryin’.”

He manages to sound accusing, and Aramis chuckles, and presses back into his body. “That’s the penalty for ruining us, my friend.”

“Are you already ruined then?” Porthos murmurs, sounding more tired with every word, “I thought you were made of sterner stuff.” He gropes blindly for the blanket, manages to get it from behind Athos’ back and pulls it over Athos and Aramis, somehow unearths the second one to cover himself as well. “I barely did anythin’.”

“Ah, you did plenty,” Aramis contradicts him, sounding just as tired. “Just the way you _hold_ people is – it’s indecent, is what it is. It shouldn’t feel that nice.”

“You’re just easy,” Porthos teases, and Athos smiles, and falls asleep listening to their bickering, his body pressed into Aramis’, too warm and too close, utterly perfect.

 

Athos wakes early the next morning, enveloped in warmth. He is lying on his side with Aramis in his arms, who is clinging to him in his sleep. Porthos has draped himself over Aramis from behind and is pushing him closer into Athos, trying to get his arms around them both.

The sun has barely risen above the horizon, and the light in the room is still grey and colourless, the air chilly so close to the winter. The fire in the hearth has died in the night, and it is very quiet; even their breathing seems hushed.

Athos lifts his hand to bury it in Aramis’ hair before he is even fully awake, twists his fingers into the dark strands and gazes down at Aramis’ face, his mind still hazy and sleep-addled.

Aramis is beautiful when asleep, because he is always beautiful, and Athos’ heart performs a startled jump when it occurs to him that he used to watch her in just the same manner – that he guarded her sleep for hours, solemnly promising himself that he would never allow her to come to harm.

He thinks of her so seldom now that the memory comes as a shock to his system, and he presses his eyes shut and lets out a shuddering breath, waiting for the hurt and shame to set in … but they do not come. Not like they used to, leaving him crippled and frozen, desperate for a drink to loosen his senses and bring some warmth back into his bones.

Instead he feels sad, for himself and for her. He no longer misses her touch, or her warmth, can only lament the manner in which they came to be together, and eventually apart. The time with her was like a dream, one that turned into a nightmare all too soon, and Athos realizes that despite the many faces she has shown him, he probably never even came close to seeing her true character. He wonders if she even knows it herself.

Aramis murmurs something incomprehensible in his sleep and moves closer to him, brushes his lips to Athos’ naked skin. Athos re-opens his eyes just in time to see him smile. The memory of her weakens and fades, and Athos lowers his head to brush a kiss to Aramis’ forehead.

Being with her was so different from this. Not only because his heart rests on two secure pillars this time, not merely on one. One that was rotten on the inside, and had only its pleasing exterior to keep it upright. One that would eventually crumble to the touch.

It is different because he _knows_ them, he knows Aramis and Porthos like he has never known her; he is aware of their weaknesses and strengths, and loves them equally, comprehensively – had never even the chance to feel that way for her. Part of him regrets even now that he will forever be deprived of that opportunity, but the rest of him is content and happy with what he has.

How could he not, lying with _friends_ , true and trustworthy, so good to him that it will take the remainder of his life to pay them back.

Athos smiles when Porthos reaches out to touch him, when he lets his hand glide over his back until it comes to rest between Athos’ shoulder blades, fingers spread wide over his skin, beneath the blanket. “Good mornin’, love.”

Athos does not need to look up at Porthos to know that he is smiling, too, and yet he does, craves the strength and bliss to be derived from the warmth in Porthos’ eyes. “Good morning.”

“You fell asleep on us last night,” Porthos teases him, his voice lowered into a whisper, “we wanted your opinion on somethin’ of importance.”

“If it has to do with Aramis being easy, I prefer to be kept out of the matter,” Athos drawls, and very nearly preens under Porthos’ delighted grin.

“Alright then,” Porthos whispers, “have it your way. But I only let you get away with it because you look so very handsome this morning.”

“Good Lord, Aramis was right – you are the sweet-talker in this relationship.”

Porthos chuckles and lets his hand glide lower, down to Athos’ ass, strokes his palm over the sleep-warm skin he finds there, and makes Athos sigh with pleasure. “I merely speak my mind.”

“Yes,” Athos says, his voice rough with emotion and a hint of arousal, “you always do, don’t you?”

“Please tell me you’re not in the habit of whispering sweet nothings to each other every morning at sunrise,” comes Aramis’ voice from the region of Athos’ chest. He sounds sleepy and somewhat annoyed, and Athos is not surprised when Porthos’ expression morphs into one of utter delight as Aramis’ complaining continues, “Why are you even awake yet?”

“Because we’re not in need of quite so much beauty-sleep as you,” Porthos tells him sweetly, and lowers his head to kiss Aramis’ shoulder. “Have you slept well?”

“… Yes,” Aramis says, and lifts his head, blinks at Athos, “Did he just call me unattractive?”

Porthos chuckles, and Athos’ smile widens. “He did no such thing.”

Aramis blinks a few times more. “But he said –”

“He called you a beauty,” Athos tells him earnestly. “You need to listen properly, Aramis.”

“When you talk like that you make me think I’m still asleep,” Aramis whispers, and his voice sounds different, all of a sudden, sober, and serious. “It makes me think we’re still on that farm, and that I’m just about to wake up – after you’ve made me lie down beside you on the bed – that it’s not real, that it never has been, and Porthos is returning in a few hours to … to take you away again.”

Athos looks up and meets Porthos’ gaze, neither of them smiling anymore.

“We’re not in the habit of takin’ anythin’ away from you,” Porthos says, “and I for one have no intention to start. Do you have any idea how happy this makes me? Watchin’ you two together and see how well you fit? Even if I’d come back to that farm and found you two in bed together, _fuckin’_ each other, I wouldn’t have complained.”

Athos has to bite his lip to contain the sudden spike of arousal lighting up inside him, feels the involuntary twitch of Aramis’ hips against his, and closes his eyes.

Porthos must feel it too, but he continues to speak as though nothing has happened. “This isn’t a dream, Aramis, you’re awake, and you got us, _both of us_ , and if you have any doubt about that, you just have to move your ass a little to _feel_ that it’s real.”

Aramis moans and pushes against Athos’ once more. Athos feels him harden against his hip, whimpering Porthos’ name.

“Yeah,” Porthos growls, and his hand, still on Athos’ ass, grabs on tighter, and pulls Athos forward, closer to Aramis and into his body, “you feel it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Aramis moans, and moves his hips in earnest, rubs his hardening cock against Athos as though he has to or turn mad, “yes, I still feel you.”

“There you go then,” Porthos murmurs, his tone husky and rough, and Athos knows that he is hard, too, can hear it in his voice. The knowledge sends a shiver through him and he clings to Aramis as his own arousal takes a hold of him, presses his mouth to Aramis’ and kisses him, open-mouthed and needy, desperate to make this real, as much for his own sake as for Aramis’.

They writhe against each other, all three of them, and Athos whines when Aramis breaks the kiss, barely understands what is happening when Aramis moves to sit up and turns around, grabs Porthos’ shoulder and drags him into a sitting position as well, straddles his lap and presses their mouths together as if he’s starving for it.

Athos watches them, licking his lips, tingling and raw from kissing, as the air shudders in and out of his lungs, his balance so overset that he can barely push himself up.

Then Aramis groans and turns his head to look at him, reaches out his hand, “You too, Athos, come here, please, you too.” He moves again, to straddle Porthos’ right thigh, so Athos can take the left, and then they’re both sitting on Porthos’ lap, and Porthos’ arms are around them, and hold them close while they kiss, nearly out of their minds with need.

None of them have any restraint left, and they share open-mouthed kisses while they rut up against each other – against Porthos, who is gripping them so tightly that it hurts, his control noticeably slipping.

Then he shudders, and steadies, and his touch turns into a caress. “One of these days you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” He takes them in hand and brings them off, gently and slowly, teeth gritted and shoulders tense while they pant out his name, over and over again. They come almost simultaneously, first Aramis and then Athos, and sit motionless for a while, dumbstruck by the force of their release.

Porthos heaves out a sigh, falls onto his back, and closes his eyes, still hard, cock curving towards his belly and leaking drops of pre-come onto his dark skin. “You two are gonna be the death of me.”

Athos stares down to where his and Aramis’ release are mingling on Porthos’ chest; when he leans down to lick it off Aramis groans and follows his example – causing Porthos to growl and push his hands into their hair, gripping tightly. “The _death_ of me!”

“He’s still talking,” Aramis pants out, “how is he still talking, why is he always – Athos, help me shut him up!”

Athos lets out an amused huff and moves lower, kisses his way down Porthos’ belly, and licks him clean – his eyes wide open and fixed on Aramis, silently ordering him to do the same.

Aramis grins, pleased and devious, and follows Athos’ example once more. Porthos groans when they pause in their endeavours to kiss, but his fingers in Athos’ hair remain gentle, do not urge him lower.

His grip does turn somewhat painful once their mouths reach his cock, but Aramis does not seem to mind at all, and Athos is too intend on making Porthos come to pay it much attention. He is licking up and down Porthos’ length, swirling his tongue around the tip, failing to contain a moan when his tongue touches Aramis’. He does not think he has ever done something so depraved before, not even for her, not even while he was tied up and begging her to be whipped.

No-one talked him into doing this. No-one seduced him into sucking Porthos’ cock together with Aramis. No-one even so much as suggested it to him.

It was simply the first idea that presented itself, and he did not question it … cannot claim that he regrets it, either.

The sounds leaving Porthos’ throat are too good to allow any regrets, the rush of making him feel good is too intense. If anyone deserves this it’s Porthos – Porthos who always takes such good care of him, who makes him feel safe and loved, and even sees to it that he eats properly.

Without him, Athos would be miserable, without Porthos’ patience and acceptance he never would have allowed himself to have this … would never have found the strength to take care of Aramis in turn. It all begins and ends with Porthos, and there can be no sin in such an act as this one, not when it originates from love.

… Maybe he should discuss the matter with Aramis later; he surely would like to hear his opinion.

Now Athos is too pre-occupied with Porthos’ taste, with the way Porthos’ fingers glide through his hair, gentle once more. It almost makes Athos cry, that unshakable desire in Porthos to be kind, even when he is reduced to moans and growls, seems to have lost the ability to form words at last.

They do not need long to make him come – not with Aramis fondling and licking Porthos’ balls, his left hand reaching up to stroke over Porthos’ chest and belly, fingers spread wide over Porthos’ twitching skin. Athos watches Porthos shake apart between them, watches the tremors shake through his thighs and up his torso, and closes his eyes when Porthos lets go. He licks him clean when he is finished, and then crawls up his body to lie down beside him and rest his head on Porthos’ shoulder, exhausted and content.

Aramis stays where he is, places his cheek on Porthos’ right thigh and grins up at them, visibly pleased with himself – looking rather besotted, too. “I love you two, I truly do.”

Porthos is still too far gone, too invested in getting his breath back to reply, and Aramis’ grin widens, and he turns his head to kiss the soft skin on the inside of Porthos’ thigh, nuzzles it tenderly. “I believe I won this encounter.”

“He is going to destroy you so utterly –“ Athos interrupts himself and clears his throat. “You really should not have done that.”

Aramis winks at him. “I see you have a champion. And do I have to remind you that it wasn’t my idea, my dear Athos – but yours? Surely, he will destroy you first, giving me sufficient time to plan my defence.”

Porthos reaches out to tousle his hair, still not quite up to talking, but his smile speaks for itself. Aramis lets out a sound that’s suspiciously close to a giggle, and lowers his gaze, very nearly blushing, and Athos does not know what to do with these two ridiculous men who defy every reason and seem to exist solely to spite society’s rules and do precisely what it least expects of them.

People see Porthos and expect a vicious brute, coarse and ill-mannered, without conscience or honour, without _breeding_. They have no idea that he does not have one ounce of wickedness inside him, that he is as generous and honest with strangers as he is with his friends, that his smile offers a warmth to rival that of the sun. They know nothing of his sharp wit or his delightful sense of humour; they do not know that he taught himself everything he knows, and never stops bettering himself – have no idea how vast his knowledge and interests are, that he knows the constellation of the stars, finds beauty in everything including poetry and the fine arts, even if he prefers simplicity to decadence.

Porthos is a man who cries when he is sad, and laughs when he is happy, who lists you all the reasons why he loves you without hesitation or shame – unlike Aramis, who rattles of an even longer list, only to tell you you’re an idiot mere seconds later, meaning it both times, and smiling all the while.

People look at Aramis and see a charming seducer, unscrupulous and without principle, empty behind the pleasant mask he presents to the world.

It took Athos far too long to unravel the intricacies of Aramis’ nature, but even he never believed him to be empty. What he has found behind the mask is a childlike innocence that is never diminished by the number of people Aramis takes into his bed. He is desperate to be loved, so starved for it that he searches for it everywhere – finds it everywhere, too, but seldom of the nature he needs. He allows his heart to be broken over and over again, always hoping, never giving in.

His faith in God is as strong as his faith in love, and he is generous in both; although he oversteps their boundaries left and right, never paying heed to the rules of society; he does have his own set of rules, and sticks to it. He never seduces where he is not welcome, never forces himself onto an unwilling partner – he never takes advantage of true innocence, and just like Porthos he never abuses his strength towards those weaker than him.

They are kind, warm men, both of them, always ready to assist those in need, always honourable in their own way, and Athos loves them like he never loved anyone else.

He has shared everything with them in the years since they have met, hunger and pain and fear, they saw him in his darkest moments and never turned their backs on him – asked what is wrong and accepted his silence, never pushing for answers.

Now that they know, now that his past is laid bare and they see him for everything that he is, they are still remaining by his side, they still love him, stubborn and heedless of consequences.

That, at least, is no surprise. They never think of the consequences of their behaviour, not when they believe to be doing what is right.

“Ah, Porthos, look at him,” Aramis murmurs, and Athos cannot fail to hear the delighted grin in his voice, “he has his profound face on – I bet he’s contemplating grand matters of state.”

Porthos chuckles and stretches, and brings his arm up and around Athos, cuddles him a little closer. “I thought we were gettin’ some more sleep.”

“I am not hindering you,” Athos protests softly. “Go ahead and sleep.”

“But now I want to know about those grand matters of state,” Aramis teases him, “come on, tell us, Athos – you know we can keep a secret.”

Athos looks down at him, detects honest curiosity beneath the sleepy happiness in Aramis’ eyes, and his lips pull into a smile. “I was not contemplating grand matters of state.”

Aramis pouts at him. “Ah, but you should – you have the head for it.”

Athos reaches down to him and buries is fingers in Aramis’ hair, pretending not to hear him. “I was merely allowing my thoughts to wander,” he says, “and they chose to busy themselves with … matters of the heart.”

Aramis’ eyes widen, but then he leans into Athos’ touch, and allows his lids to droop. “And how are they – those matters? Are they flourishing?”

“You could say that,” Athos agrees with a soft smile, “I do not believe that they ever had such rich ground to take root in.”

Porthos smiles and kisses Athos’ temple, tenses the muscles in his thigh to disturb Aramis’ rest, “Come up here, your beard is starting to irk me.”

Aramis’ pout intensifies. “You’re interrupting Athos’ with your childish complaints.”

Porthos shakes his leg. “You’re disrupting my peace of mind with your itchy beard.”

Athos pushes his face into Porthos’ neck to hide his grin and stifle his laughter while Aramis rises and rearranges his limbs, muttering all the while, and finally flops down on Porthos’ right side, burrowing into him with all the grace of a newborn calf. “There, are you happy now?”

“Very,” Porthos assures him, “you can go on now – ask Athos about that fertile garden of his.”

“Now, that just sounds _wrong_ ,” Aramis exclaims, sounding mildly scandalized, and Athos finds it very hard not to laugh out loud. “I fear you’ve thoroughly ruined that moment, Porthos.”

“I seem to be ruinin’ quite a lot recently,” Porthos muses, and Athos can _feel_ his smile, loves how it fills his bones with light and spreads warmth into his fingertips. “I think I’ll make a habit out of it, yeah? What do you think?”

Aramis starts to mumble something which is lost as Porthos brushes their mouths together, and Athos opens his eyes to watch them kiss, sweet and unhurried in the warming light of morning.

He loves them so much that it hurts, loves the smile that lurks in the corners of Aramis’ mouth, loves how Porthos’ expression has turned earnest and open, exposing all of his heart.

“It would be a good habit to pursue,” he says quietly, and lifts his hand to twist his fingers into Porthos’ curls. “I am in favour of it.”

Porthos’ throat produces a vulnerable little sound, surprised and happy all at once, and he releases Aramis’ mouth to claim Athos’ instead, to kiss him just as sweetly.

“Yes,” Aramis whispers, a little hoarsely, “Porthos ruining everything sounds like a marvellous idea.” He scrambles on top of Porthos to get closer to Athos, and Porthos wheezes into the kiss, and gasps.

“Can you at least try to be gentle?”

Aramis ignores him entirely, in favour of looking into Athos’ eyes, “I want to kiss you, too.”

“Go ahead then,” Athos encourages him, cannot stop the smile from taking possession of his face, “I am not stopping you.”

Aramis grins and leans forward to cover Athos’ face in kisses, and Porthos sighs, and lets his head drop onto the pillow, watches them from under half-closed lids. “Beautiful, both of you.”

Aramis calls him a charmer and keeps kissing Athos, feather-light and playful, never quite touching his mouth, while Athos closes his eyes and relaxes, melts into the sensation.

He never had this. Not with her, not with anyone else. Even when she played at being an innocent, she never made him feel like this – so cherished, and _safe_. He wanted to protect her, yes … but he never felt so secure in his skin when he was with her, even before she turned him into her slave.

Maybe he could not. Because she never allowed him even so much as a glimpse at her heart.

He has seen Porthos’ heart, though, has seen all of it – and he has seen Aramis’, too. He knows how they feel for him, and being in love once more is not quite so frightening, not quite so terrifying when he knows that the other one – two, that the other _two_ are frightened as well, that they are just as vulnerable as he is, but have decided to take this step all the same.

He is not alone in this, and he never will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This was it. I do not think a story ever took up so much of my time and mind (and heart), and I want to thank my lovely beta [hope calaris](http://hope-calaris.tumblr.com/) for keeping up with this monster of a fic so very bravely. I know the smut took its toll, honey, and I value your work. I feel much safer posting my stuff knowing you approve. (I also apologize in advance for the third part of the series, it's only going to get worse ... so much worse.)
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who ever wrote me a comment, be it here or over on tumblr. Your feedback is what kept me going when nothing else would have, and I love our little discussions and chats - I'm very glad to have met you all.
> 
> I hope you had fun with this story, and that we'll see each other in the third part of the series!
> 
> HUGGLES

**Author's Note:**

> I'm available on [tumblr](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/) if you need me.


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